


To Do The Right Thing

by Eleanor_Lambb



Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: Canon Divergence, For specific triggers please check chapter summaries, Fuck Canon My City Now, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Sexual Content, Slow Burn, Weird dreams, alternating povs, and when i say slow burn i mean like REAL slow burn, bisexual waylon, both miles and waylon deal with ptsd and trauma, discussion and mentions of previous sexual assault and violence, gay miles, just two dudes on the run from corporate hitmen, lisa/waylon but its not the main relationship of this fic but they are together, miles survives au, outlast related violence, waylon has a disability
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-30
Updated: 2019-09-28
Packaged: 2019-09-30 15:42:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 54
Words: 192,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17226794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eleanor_Lambb/pseuds/Eleanor_Lambb
Summary: Waylon Park is a lot of things. Empathetic is at the top of that list.





	1. Epilogue

**Author's Note:**

> I've been working on this fic since I was in high school, so 4 years. I've always been a fan of outlast, and I finally have something to contribute. I always wanted to explore a relationship and au between miles and waylon, where miles lives. I play fast and loose with the outlast canon, but I don't care I'm having fun! I also draw a little, so I'm adding some fun illustrations I did throughout this fic!
> 
> First one (title work)
> 
> http://5un5yst.tumblr.com/post/180077186068/iv-been-trying-to-work-on-ths-outlast-fic-since-i

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> BEGIN ACT 1

The morning was golden as he limped forward. The celestial rays passed through dark rain clouds and fog to cast everything in its beautious morning light. It was symbolic to Waylon. Seeing the morning glow, it filled him with the last shred hope he needed to make it out.  

Waylon struggled along the brick path. He refused to collapse, but he still shook weakly. He was almost at the gates. He looked back at the hellish building that he was leaving behind, just for a second. It looked so normal in the daytime, peaceful even. No one would've ever guessed the disgusting, vile, horrid, twisted things that happened inside.

 Looking straight again, Waylon limped to the security booth. It was empty, a bright red jeep parked neatly in front. Praying, he grabbed the edge of the open window and handle, and it popped open. He slid easily into the pleather driver's seat.

Waylon smeared blood on the steering wheel. Sickly metallic scent covered him. It was still warm, and it seeped into his grimy clothes. He remembered Blair, laying there in the doorway, wounded, asking for help. 

Waylon's chest burned and oozed from the shard of glass that Blair had stabbed him with. And while Waylon was on the ground, Blair looming overhead, a bloodied shard in his hand, a cloud of smoke snatched Blair out of the air, like he was nothing to it. Waylon watched in horror as the man was ripped apart from the inside, and bone and organs and blood rained down upon him.

Whatever that thing was that killed Blair, Waylon wasn't going to stick around to wait for it to kill him too. The keys, thankfully, were still in the ignition. Turning the key, the jeep purred to life, and hope sparked in Waylon's chest. He let out a heavy, strained sound from his throat, slightly sore from screaming and disuse over his days trapped inside. Luckily enough, he broke his left leg, not the right. 

Looking up, the wind picked up stray leaves on the asylums steps, black smoke appearing, whipping the leaves up into the air with an unnatural strength. Waylon picked up the camera, his sole companion in this fucked-up nightmare. His bloodied fingers slipped, accidentally pressing the night vision filter. On the steps stood a figure, dark and grainy. A physical shadow, made of smoke that wisped and wavered. Waylon could make out arms, legs, a torso, and a pair of bright eyes.

His heart thumping in his bruised and broken ribcage, Waylon tossed the camera to the side, panic overtaking him as he tried to move the stick-shift. It was stuck in park.

 _"Dammit! Fuck, c'mon,"_ he begged, stomping hard on the brake pedal and gripping the stick tightly.

The smoke cloud dispersed from the steps, flying fast towards the jeep.

Sweating, Waylon pulled on the stick, slamming on the brakes.

"C'mon c'mon c'mon!" He screamed, the sound gutteral and fearful, eyes stinging with tears, darting to the approaching smoke cloud. It was no use, the stick would not budge. The smoke dashed for him, a piercing screech ringing in his ears. Waylon shut his eyes, put his hands up, a last-ditch attempt to shield himself from whatever hell this thing had for him.

And then something heavy dropped on the hood.

Waylon waited a second, two seconds, three. The screeching had stopped, but it echoed in his head. Something on the hood groaned.

Warily, and with a lump in his throat, Waylon opened an eye to look through a slit between his fingers. On the hood, was a body. Waylon stared at it, arms wearily lowering, his breathing hard. The body belonged to a man, lying face down on the red hood of the Jeep. Black and grey smoke steamed off of his destroyed military-style jacket.

 _"What the fuck-"_ Waylon breathed, hard and heavy. One of the man's hands were pressed on the windshield. God, his fucking hand. It was a bloody mess, a finger missing like someone had snapped it off.

The man groaned. He was alive. He was still alive.

Waylon sat quietly, his mind racing. Waylon had never seen him before, and he wasn't dressed like a patient. Of course that didn't mean much to Waylon, as that image of the doctor - or patient, it could have been - getting his head smash against the plexiglass of the security checkpoint flashed quickly. As far as Waylon was concerned, a complete stranger was dropped on the hood of the jeep. Worse than a stranger, a stranger dropped off by a murderous fucking smoke demon that he watched rip someone apart.

The man groaned, and Waylon gripped the steering wheel. He swallowed hard. Waylon just wanted to leave, he wanted to see his children and his wife. He didn't care about some stranger, especially when this stranger was a smoking man that some paranormal anomaly dropped from the sky. Waylon just wanted to go home. Waylon pressed his foot on the brake and wrapped his hand around the stick.

An empty, pained moan chilled Waylon's bones.

Waylon watched as the man erupted into a coughing fit, his whole body seizing. Waylon watched him writhe and groan, the man's body jerking against the hood.

Waylon closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and opened the car door. He limped around the front of the hood. The man's coughing fit subsided as he rounded the corner, being replaced by heavy, ragged breathing. He grabbed the man by his dusty coat and heaved him off the hood. The man fell onto the stone like a dead deer. 

 _"Come on, guy, help me out here,"_ Waylon's vision wavered. His leg pulsed in pain. 

Waylon stooped down, shaking the stranger, flipping him onto his back. His shirt was a bloody, ripped mess. Waylon took a few seconds to inspect the man. He flexed his hand, picked at a piece of the ripped fabric. Plenty of blood, wet and dried, but no wounds, as far as Waylon could see. Not that he was about to undress this man to tend to some cut he couldn't find. Waylon doubted that any of the blood was this mans anyway.

The man had olive skin, with a wide jaw and square nose. Blood was smeared and spattered on him like a ghastly mask. The cold thought of cannibal crossed Waylon's mind. 

He really, _really_ , does not want to bring this man with him.

But this part - this small, small part of him that the asylum hasn't taken from him, a sliver of _mercy_ Waylon was never shown - overcame the rest of him. He may not want to bring this man with him, but he _has_ to.

Waylon stood up, wincing at the pressure he put on his wounded leg. He dragged himself to the back of the Jeep, throwing open the door to the backseat. Wobbling back, Waylon bent forward, careful to not bend his wounded leg, and gripped the man by the shoulders of his jacket. Waylon strained using what little strength he had left, dragging the man along the stones.

With great, tried effort, Waylon somehow got the man into the backseat. The stranger's head was pressed against the opposite door, legs curled up against his chest. The blood smeared the interior. Waylon stared for a moment.

 _"I'm really doing this,"_ his lips moved wordlessly, " _I'm really about to bring you with me. You probably eat people's faces off and....jerk off in their ribcages or something."_

Waylon shut the door, quietly climbing into the drivers seat. He sat there for what he felt was hours. He stared at the bloody smears on the windshield, the asylum a white blur behind. Adrenaline ebbed away, replaced by the hum of exhaustian and sharp pain. He needed sleep. He needed to be in bed, and stay there for a week.

_"C'mon, Waylon.... c'mon, we can do it....we can get home...."_

_Home_. Home with Lisa, and his beautiful boys. Home, safe and sound and _away from here._

Waylon pressed on the brakes, pulling the stick to reverse, twisting back to stare out the back windshield. He stomped on the gas, peeling out of the long stone road.

\- - -

 

Coming home was just as hard as navigating Mount Massive.

Driving down the mountain was akin to a nightmare. Waylon was exhausted. He hit every bump in the trail, each impact making him think that the whole Jeep would come apart, and he'd be stranded. The Jeep, unsurprisingly, stayed whole. When Waylon saw the long strip of the main highway, he cried, body shuddering in relief. 

He was careful driving, making sure in an almost too-meticulous manner that he wouldn't raise suspicion with any authorities. He saw multiple armoured vans fly by on the opposite side of the highway, towards the asylum. Waylon gripped the steering wheel a little bit tighter.

The four hours it took to get home were quiet. He tried listening to the radio, but only static came through, no matter which station he chose. It made his head throb, so he switched it off. Every few minutes, Waylon glanced into the backseat. The stranger didn't move, didn't make a sound the whole way. He looked dead, but Waylon could see his chest rise and fall. Waylon almost wished that he would wake up, anything to fill the silence and rescue him from any thought of Gluskin or Murkoff or any other thought or memory he couldn't escape from.

Waylon passed gas stations, motels, buildings and towns and rest stops, but felt too afraid to stop. He was afraid that, if he stopped, he wouldn't make it to Lisa and his boys. If he slept, he would never wake up. If the car stopped and parked, another car would crash into it. What-ifs kept his seat belt on tight. His stomach ached, and he felt light-headed, but he was focused on getting home. Thankfully, the car had a full tank, so gas wasn't an issue (not that Waylon could pay for gas - security had stripped him of all his possessions before forcing him into the Morphogenic therapies.)

The town his family lived in was small. It was the simple town of Pinewood Summit, with scattered mom-and-pop shops, a school, a church, a post office and police station, and plenty of farmland. Waylon passed miles of fields and oak and pine trees, finally turning onto a long stretch of dirt road flanked by wild grass and deer. In the distance, Waylon saw the peaked black roof of their family home.

Their house was large and old and beautiful, an ancient Colonial with an attatched garage the previous owners built. The house needed tons of work, but it fit their income, and was as close as Waylon could get to Mt. Massive. There was lots of room for his boys to play and grow, neighboring houses miles apart to give Waylon's family a perfect sense of privacy and security. It was supposed to be their new start, their new life.

But now, everything threatened to come crashing down on top of them.

Body shaking, he barely got the garage door open before he saw two sandy-haired heads peep out from the door connecting the kitchen to the garage. Waylon parked the car, shutting the engine off, and his sons raced to the drivers side.

"Dad! Dad! Dad!" his eldest boy, Ricky, twelve years old and sharper than any blade, opened the car door, "Dad, you were gone for almost two months! Where have you been?!" Waylon almost fell out of his seat. Small hands undid his seatbelt. His younger son, ten year old Ben, was tugging on his shirt. Ben recoiled almost immediately.

"Dad, you smell bad!" He gagged, small hands flying to his nose.

Ricky did a glance-over. His pale eyes got big, and he grabbed at his father's arm.

"Are you hurt, Dad? We can take you to the hospital! I'll drive!" He reached across Waylon's chest to grab at the steering wheel.

A laugh built up in his chest, but it came out as a broken sob. His facade crumbled. He slid out of the drivers seat onto his knees, onto the concrete. He reached out blindly for his sons. They embraced him, and he held both in a tight hug, sobbing between their shoulders. He kept opening his mouth to speak, but all he could manage were strained cries, keeping at bay everything he really wanted to say. Waylon could physically feel a weight lift from his shoulders, he was so relieved to see his sons.

The boys started crying, too, and Waylon heard Ricky call for his mother. Ricky tried to break away from the hug, but fear kept Waylon tight around his shoulders. His right leg screamed in pain, but Waylon was intent on keeping his boys close.

Ben squirmed, and Waylon relented, finally loosening his grip, leaning back, one hand on each of the boys shoulders. Ben's hair was trimmed back nice and neat into a crew cut. Ricky's hair was a little longer than it was the last time he saw him. Their pale eyes were now red, both sniveling, big tears running down their faces. Waylon kissed their cheeks.

Waylon heard a choked cry behind the Jeep. He turned, and in the doorway stood Lisa. She was dressed in baggy sweats, and one of Waylon's spare graphic tees, and it tugged at his heart. Her dark hair was loose around her shoulders. As soon as their eyes met, Waylon froze. Shame made him shudder, turned his blood cold. His arms dropped to his sides. Lisa rushed down into the garage. She dropped onto her knees, clinging to Waylon almost desperately. Her eyes welled up, but a tear never rolled.

He stroked her hair, burying his face into her shoulder. He inhaled her normal coconut shampoo, mixed with a touch of his lightly-scented shower gel. She must have been using his soaps, he reckons.

She released him. Always the stoic one, the  _strong_ one. Her dark eyes went wide as she gave him a once over. She reached out a hand to touch his chest, on the wound from Blair.

Waylon flinched, and he _hated_ himself for it.

"What did they _do_ to you, Waylon." Lisa murmured.

Waylon could have laughed. His body shuddered. He fell forward into her chest, the edges of his vision blurring into blackness, going limp.


	2. Wake Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Do you ever have a dream that seems so real, you feel real fear when you wake up?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternatinng POVs rule!
> 
> concepts of Lisa and the boys:
> 
>  
> 
> http://5un5yst.tumblr.com/post/180084340278/concepts-for-lisa-and-their-boys-ricky-12-and

**The sky is a bright white, and down below, the ground is black. Grass peeled back by flame to reveal a dusted, ashy earth. Wind picks up ash, burnt flecks, throwing it around Miles. It brushes against his face, but Miles is too fixed on the feat before him to brush the debris away. A steep hill faces Miles, a black figure standing at the top, beckoning him. He sees the figure move, and a warm buzz fills his chest.**

**Miles steps forward, his footsteps sinking into the black, burning earth. The hill is too steep, more of a mountain than a hill. He grabs at the earth of the hill, hands whole and clean. He looks down, looking for a place to fix his footing. He's nude, but clean. Free of dirt and blood. Miles finds himself clawing, climbing.**

**Miles climbed for hours, always getting close to the top, to the figure, before a shake of the earth knocks him back down. Dark ash covers his hands and arms. Sweat runs down his body, leaving clean trails in the soot.**

**He's close now, he can see a pair of white, shining eyes. His muscles ache, burn. He groans, finding a stone to hold onto. The charred dirt around the stone comes loose, and he loses his footing. Miles screams, reaching upwards for the figure.**

**He plummets.**

Miles jolts awake with a yell. He scrambles backwards, his head hitting an awkwardly angled wall. Panicked eyes dart around the room as he grabs at any surfaces he can find. His hand digs into what looks like a pleather chair, and Miles almost yells in pain from the raw wounds of his missing fingers, bones jutting out, exposed. He can see a dirty and smeared window, and a....doorhandle?

_"Wait, this isn't a room - it's a car,_ my _fucking car!"_

Miles sits up in the backseat, leaning into the front. He's alone, the car off, keys gone from the ignition. In the drivers seat, there's a ghastly amount of blood smeared on the steering wheel, a dried stain in the seat. Someone was driving his car - someone from the asylum, someone dangerous and someone who took him and probably is planning to skin him alive.

Miles' body shudders. He runs a hand over his face, through his hair. He looks into the rearview mirror, and sees his own face is caked in blood. His eyes seem drained of their normal color, skin a little more sickly. He looks, by all means, _dead._

He peers out the windshield, seeing bloody smears. The Jeep is parked in a garage. The walls were stacked with boxes, walls colored beige. On the left, he could see two small and well-ridden bikes, helmets hanging from the handles. His stomach dropped. Kids. There were _kids_ here.

Miles could also see a white door, light outside dim and sleepy. It was early evening, by the looks of it. This was a garage attatched to a house, most likely. Who's house, he had no idea.

_"How did I even get in here?"_

He looks down into the passengers seat. Thrown haphazardly, was a small grey camcorder, crusted with blood. Different from the smaller, sleeker black camcorder he brought with him....

A chill ran through Miles' body. Panicked, he dug through his pockets, frantically pulling out papers. He had dirty notes and files he collected from the asylum, _more_ than enough to bring down Murkoff. But without that camera, every torture, every Hell he endured and experienced, was worth _nothing_. The final nail in the coffin, _gone_.

Miles wracked his brain, every gear spinning, ducking under memories of before, trying to get to the after.....

Where a memory should be, there instead was a gaping hole. There's _nothing_ past shutting down Billy Hope's life support system, and a terrible figure made of _smoke_ and _death_ that-

There's a burning inside his body. It flares up, spreads through his veins. It's painful, like someone had started a fire within him. Miles doubles over, falling into the console, writhing. Something.... _something_ was moving under his skin.

Through the pain, his mind races back to Mount Massive, in the labs below. He remembers deactivating all of Hope's life support failsafes. The Walrider had lifted him into the air, thrown him around like he weighed nothing. The burning then, when the Walrider had him pinned to the ice, was the same as what he felt now.

Miles flipped over, the stick digging into the middle of his back. He looked down at his shirt, peeling up the tatters. He's covered in dried blood, and he almost chokes from the smell of gore. He doesn't bother trying to lift up the shirt, instead choosing to rip the tatters apart. Bumps appeared on his chest, something under his skin pressing up. Mile's watched, horrified, as a black film started to cover his chest. He didn't dare touch it, wounded hands shaking and clutching the tattered remains of his shirt. He watched the film harden, the black cracking white like he was made of burnt-out firewood. From the cracks, dark smoke billowed.

"Oh my fucking _God_ -"

Miles was frozen in terror.

" _This can't be happening, this can't be fucking happening-"_

The smoke wisped, tying together like the branches of a tree. The smoke grew thicker, Miles could barely see the backseat behind. It extended, touching the roof of the Jeep. Miles could make out a....a hand, splayed out on the roof. The fingers were long, ending in points like claws. Miles watched the claws dig into the roof, seeing the metal crunch under superhuman strength.

"Fuck me....oh fuck _me_ -" _fucking Walrider-_

Miles summoned whatever willpower and energy he had left to scramble out the passenger door. He opened the door, falling shoulder-first onto concrete. Miles felt a force, a force _within_ him, drag him forward a few feet, into a pile of stacked boxes. Miles' head bounced off the wall, his vision becoming blurred, a piercing sound ringing through his head.

He watched, dazed, as smoke poured out from his chest, enveloping his Jeep. The smoke rocked the car violently, the windows shattering. Tendrils wrapped under and around the frame, snaking through the now open windows. The tires lifted, slammed back down with every rock.

Miles curled up against the wall, knees drawn up to his chest. He tried swatting at the smoke, but his interruptions in the stream had no effect. There was nothing he could do, no way to face this thing that he carried inside of him.

A fierce groan of aluminum and metal reverberated throughout the garage. The smoke lifted the Jeep into the air, forcing it's top into the roof of the garage with brutal force. The metal scaffolding dented upward, debris snapping off.

Tendrils broke away from the Jeep, coiling along the ground in front of the right side doors. The smoke raised itself, losing transparency, packing together. Miles could make out ribs, a sternum, smoke turning solid, spreading, connecting into a spine that grew upward where a black skull was starting to form.

Miles opened his mouth, horrified, screaming.


	3. Fear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fear can make you do strange things sometimes.
> 
> (Warnings for mentions of previous sexual assaults)

  
**_Waylon struggles against the ropes around his wrists. He rocks against the table, sweating, crying, begging. Gluskin's hands caressed his legs, sickeningly slow and sweet. Every touch was a razor on Waylon's skin, and he screamed, sobbed. Gluskin was standing in the shadows. Waylon could only make out two bright eyes, and a disturbingly white smile._ ** ****__  
****__  
**_Gluskin cooed and soothed._ ** ****__  
****__  
**_"My darling, my dear girl, you're almost ready for me," Gluskin's hands disappeared into the shadows._ ** ****__  
****__  
**_Waylon heard the crank of a lever. He looked down, and a saw appeared, buzzing between his legs. Waylon panicked. He thrashed, wrists turning red and raw from the tightness of the ropes._ ** ****__  
****__  
**_"Easy, my dear, easy, it will all be over before you know it."_ **  
  
Waylon gasps, jolts straight up.  
  
_"Brightness, bright, bright, too bright-_ " He immediately shields his eyes, head spinning. He pauses, chest heaving. “ _Where....where am I?"_  
  
He lowers his arm, looks around. He's alone. He recognizes the wooden furniture, the goldenrod sheets of the bed - his bed. He grabs at the sheets, soft and familiar.  
  
“ _Bed....sheets, home, OK..,"_  
  
He takes in a few shaky breaths. His eyes flit around the room. The bedroom door is closed, the room relatively neat. Bright early sunset light fills the room from a small window to Waylon's right. All the furniture they brought with them is still there - the bed, wardrobe, nightstand, and two dressers, scattered photos and decorations. Everything seems the same as when he left, sans the cardboard boxes of when they first moved into the home. That's Lisa's doing, always a do-er,  down-to-earth and driven. Gets things _done_.

  
“ _Lisa...Lisa, my Lisa, my w..._ " he catches himself. He shakes the word from his head.  
  
“ _Don't think don't think just...get out of the bed out out I need to get out-_ "  
  
He swings his legs over the left side of his bed. He attempts to stand, but his left leg crumples under his weight. He hits the hardwood floor with a heavy thud, breath knocked out of his chest. He yells in pain, black spots dancing in his vision. His whole body is sore, his left leg pulsing with sharp pains, pressure built up on his brow.  
  
Waylon lays there, unmoving, waiting for the pain to somewhat subside. He picks his head up, turns his head to look down at his leg. Frightened and nervous of what to expect, he gingerly pulls the stained pant leg up. He let's out a choked yell, the sound trapping itself in his throat, becoming a pitiful croak.  
  
Waylon's left leg is sickly - tawny skin gone pale, yellow edging into greenish-grey. The bone of his shins split on the side, jutting out to the left. The wound had closed, but dried blood the color of rust cracks against his skin. Adrenaline and bravery long gone, he attempts to move his leg, twitch his foot and toes. His lower leg is entirely unresponsive.  
  
Heavy footsteps from the hall cause Waylon's head to snap up. He scrambles against the dark hardwood floor of the bedroom, reaching up to grasp at the bedside night table, attempting to pull himself up. He lets his weight rest against his right leg, groaning as he pulled himself up.  
  
“ _Please please - just like the old apartment, be here please-"_ He started pulling open the drawer to the table, gasped as he grasped a large metallic flashlight, before stumbling and falling back against the hardwood. He yelled, eyes scanning under the bed, and saw that it was clear of any boxes. Instinct taking over, he crawled under, gritting his teeth to muffle any sound he made. Lying parallel to the length of the bed, he kept his head low and his limbs pulled tight against him. The position gave Waylon a view of the span of the bedroom, as well as the few bottom inches of the bedroom door.  
  
The door flung open almost as soon as Waylon settled under the bed. Waylon saw grey athletic sneakers step forward, quick, shuffling, then pivoting back to the doorway.  
  
"Lisa - he's gone!" the voice is deep and worried. Waylon recognizes the voice, but stays hidden.  
  
" _What's he doing here?"_  
  
Waylon watches the figure flit around the room, quickly pulling open the wardrobe. There's a muffled yell from downstairs that he can't make out.  
  
"He's gone, Lisa! He's not in here!"  
  
Footsteps from the hallway again, and a pair of worn slip-ons enter Waylon's view.  
  
"He can't be _gone_ , he was just here!"  
  
"Did he go through the window?"  
  
Lisa crosses the room hurriedly to the window fixed on the right. Waylon stays still. It's hot under the bed, sweat seeping through his shirt. His breath coils in his throat, his chest tight and shaking, knuckles white around the flashlight.  
  
_“Don't find me,"_ he begs to himself, “ _Don't find me - ,"_  
  
The scene shifts. The light recedes, the shadows of the room growing long and sinister. The wooden flooring crumbles away in black dust, revealing dirty (once white) linoleum tiles. The bed rises, wooden frame twisting and thinning out until it became a rusted white metal.  
  
" _Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck-_ " Waylon flinches backward, watching the room rot away into tiled walls, the door crumples into nothing, only leaving behind rusted hinges.  
  
" _This isn't possible, not possible not - not - impossible -_ “ Body pulsing with fear, Waylon retreats as far as he can, his legs crushed against the wall, and he bites down a scream as his wounded leg is bent awkwardly. He clenches the flashlight tight in his sweating hands. Waylon feels nausea overwhelm him as he recognizes the scene.  
  
The figures shoes melted away, along with what Waylon could see of their pants. Their skin became mottled with dark scars, chunks of flesh missing from their calves, feet scabbed over and scrapped to the point Waylon could see bone.  
  
Vision limited, every hope he had threw itself down a damp drain as he watched the two figures pace. Their feet left behind spots of sickly - looking blood, slow, like predators closing in on the final kill. The figure - the man - approached the bed. Terrified, Waylon readied the flashlight. The man bent down, scarred knees resting on ash and filth, a pair of gory hands following suit.  
  
Waylon closed his eyes tight.  
  
"Waylon?"  
  
The asylum disappears before Waylon could open his eyes. He blinks one, twice, chest crushed against the floor, every bit of him in pain and confused.  
  
The face that peeked under the bed wasn't one of a patient, or a dreadful fiend. A man, strong jaw clean - shaven, pale skin with eyes as dark as his hair, head tilted down, thin eyebrows furrowed together.  
  
"Waylon? You remember me, don't you? It's been a while, but...." the man shakes his head, unsure.  
  
Waylon recognizes him, recognized him when he first heard his voice. He nods at the man, slow, careful, like reassurance of recognition was dangerous.  
  
“ _Frank Winks,"_ Waylon thinks, “ _Haven't seen you in years,"_  
  
"Why don't you come out of there," Frank says, smiling, but devoid of any joy. His head tilts, looking up, and Lisa bends down to stare under the bed.  
  
Tears prick at Waylon's eyes when his wife appears into view.  
  
"Jesus, Waylon -" she breathes, sounding strained, "What are you doing under there?"  
  
Waylon shakes his head. He didn't know where to begin, every thought getting lost with another.  
  
"Baby," she says, and Waylon wishes he could sink into the floor, "Please come out from there."  
  
Waylon's whole body flushes red with embarrassment and shame. He feels like a dog, fearful of a storm, cowering away under the bed until the sky stops shaking. He thinks himself pathetic. Waylon inches forward on his forearms, pulling his weight, trying not to move his injured leg any more than he has to.  
  
Lisa and Frank grabbed Waylon by his arms as his top half emerged from under the bed, pulling him longways, then up when his legs were free. Waylon grit his teeth, a stifled yell escaping when his left leg bent awkwardly as he was sat down on the bed. Lisa held his left hand, sat down, kept her legs clear of his. Frank bent down on his knees, holding onto Waylon's right forearm.  
  
"Waylon," Lisa squeezes his hand, voice cracking, "What were you doing under there? What happened?" her voice is soft.  
  
He can't look at her. He's not strong enough to meet her gaze, gut twisted into knots. There's so much Waylon wants to say, to make clear and explain. He feels trapped in his own body, unable to speak.  
  
“ _What happened to you?"_  
  
It echoes and bounces off his brain, every memory, every second of his imprisonment, running through his head.  
  
" _What happened to you, Waylon?"_  
  
He looks down at his hands, looks at the one Lisa's holding. He flips his hand, palm down.  
  
His body tenses, his right hand digging into his thigh.  
  
" _They took it_ ," he mouths, wordless.  
  
He rips his body away from the two. Their touches felt tight and sharp, like razors. He stares at his hand, his ring finger.  
  
"They took it," he croaks out, almost intelligible. A fat tear rolls down his cheek. He's scared, ashamed. What will Lisa think of him now? A bastard, a coward who threw everything away.  
  
He stands, nearly hitting Frank in the face with his knee.  
  
Frank and Lisa spring up. Frank attempts to grab Waylon, but Lisa pushes his hands away.  
  
Waylon grasps at the dresser across from the bed. His stomach flips, nauseous.  
  
"What did they take, Waylon?" Lisa says, soft and patient.  
  
Waylon chokes on his breath. A plain gold band, his wedding ring, taken off of him after Blair knocked him unconscious. Waylon woke up without any of his possessions, dressed in dirty rags of a uniform, cold and alone. He flexes his left hand, the ring impression long gone.  
  
"April sixth, 2004...." the inscription on the inside band. Waylon had memorized it, would never forget it. Their wedding date. He closes his eyes.  
  
He tries to remember that day. Lisa, beautiful and elegant in a long white gown. She was smiling, joyful. The image sickened him.  
  
The room spins, and Lisa shatters, twists, replaced by a grim, dirty wedding dress propped up on a mannequin.  
  
The floor falls away, and Waylon drops. He opens his eyes, and he's no longer in his home. The room melted away, light fading into grim shadow. The dresser crumbled into a small stage, and Waylon finds himself kneeling at the altar once again, the dressed mannequin evil and foreboding. Head turning, Lisa and Frank disappeared. He's kneeling among empty pews, alone.  
  
" _I....this can't be possible -_ " and he slaps himself internally, " _Not impossible - of course....it was too much to ask - I'm still at the asylum -"_ he stands, clutching his leg, " _This is what I get. This is my punishment. I tried to fuck Murkoff, and now it's fucking me,"_  
  
The room was dark, long and rectangular. There's three doorways. One directly in front, one on the left, and one on the right. The only light source was a flickering, dying fluorescent light from the doorway to the left.  
  
" _It'll fuck me until I'm raw and dead -"_  
  
A screech of metal, spotlights flashed, and Waylon is quick to shield his eyes. He ducks behind a pew, knees curled up into his chest. He clamps his hands over his mouth, trying to muffle his shortened breaths. His chest tightens, breath caught in his throat. He can't breath. Terrified, Waylon stays still, listening.  
  
Heavy steps behind the pews make the rotted floor groan. In tune with the stepfalls, Waylon can hear humming, scattered notes of a  song.  
  
He presses his hands harder, trying to control his breathing, gathering his thoughts.  He peers around the corner of the pew. The bright spotlights obscure the figures upper body and face, but Waylon recognizes the tattered remains of a pair of dress pants and scuffed loafers. His blood runs cold.  
  
Waylon ducks low back into his cover. He leans down, knees and palms touching the floor. He pulled himself away from the middle, towards the end of the pews, left.  
  
The humming stopped.  
  
A hand grabs Waylon by his ankle, yanking him backward.  
  
Waylon yells, arms flying out from under him, nose smashing against the floor. The figure grabs the back of his shirt, hauling him up, then throwing him back down. He grabs Waylon's arm, rolling him over so Waylon lays on his back.  
  
Waylon can see the Groom, staring down, wide grin terrifying.  
  
He screams.  
  
The room shakes. Debris and dust falls from the ceiling, circling Gluskin in a filthy halo.  
  
Gluskin looks up, grimaces. He bends down, breath rancid.  
  
"Not yet," he says, though his voice is warped and far, "but soon, I'll have you, my dear." his lips curl back, revealing black decaying gums.  
  
The room shakes again, glass shattering distantly. Wordlessly, he releases his grip on Waylon, stepping over his pathetic form. He raises his leg, brings his foot down on Waylon's head.  
  
Waylon can feel the bone crack. He yells, holds his face. He can feel wetness seep through his fingers.  
  
_"I deserve this - I deserve everything I get-"_  
  
A cold liquid hits Waylon's face. It fills his nose and mouth, and he bounces up to avoid choking. Spitting, he wipes his eyes, looks forward, and find that he's home again. The decaying church disappeared, and Waylon finds himself sitting in the hallway outside of his bedroom. Lisa and Frank are both standing over him, eyes wide with worry. Lisa has a large glass in her hand, empty now but water drips down the lid over her fingers. Waylon coughs, sniffs, hands curling into fists against the soggy carpet under him.  
  
Frank shakes his head, "We need to get him to a hospital."  
  
"We can't, Frank, I told you about Murkoff -"  
  
"Jesus Christ, Lisa, look at him - " he points down at Waylon, "he's hallucinating, he can barely talk, just look at his leg, for Christ's sake! He needs medical attention!"  
  
"That's what I brought you here for!"  
  
"You didn't - "  
  
Waylon turns onto his right side, pushing himself up. He wants to disappear, save his family the sight of him in this pathetic and tragic state....maybe he could climb onto the roof through the attic and throw himself off -  
  
A piercing groan of metal shakes the house. Frank and Lisa stop their argument. A second clap, then a third, a rapid shaking of the foundation. Glass shatters. Frank bounds towards the stairs leading into the living room. Lisa bends down, grabs Waylon by his shoulders.  
  
"Stay here," she says, and runs to follow Frank.  
  
A car alarm goes off, one that Waylon doesn't recognize.  
  
The Jeep.  
  
The stranger.  
  
Waylon, pained and soaked, grabs onto the hallway table and pulls himself up. His hand runs along the wall, keeping him grounded as he rushed to the stairs. Careful about his leg, he hops down the stairs, two steps at a time, a shake of the house throwing him into the banister. He looks into the living room, and Lisa has her arms around the boys, crouching low behind the couch. He crosses into the kitchen. Frank is trying to break down the door connecting the kitchen to the garage. He stops, turns around to run past Waylon.  
  
"I have a crowbar in my car - " and he bounds for the front door.  
  
Waylon stares at the garage door, listening to a dying car alarm and the crashing of metal and glass.  
  
_"I brought this here - I did this. It's going to kill my family...I shouldn't have gotten into the car. I should have stayed there."_  
  
He's still, feeling the foundation of the house rumble and shake. He feels so empty, so worthless. There's some maniac tearing apart his house, and all he can do it stand there.  
  
A deep, terrified scream jolts Waylon, and the house stills in an instant. It's loud, and echoes, bounces through Waylon's head like a rubber ball. He shuffles forward, drawn to what lied on the other side of the door.  
  
" _Don't open that door....don't open that door don't do it don'tdon'tdon't-"_  
  
He grabs the handle, twisting.  
  
The shaking had ended, leaving behind a flickering overhead light that cast ghostly shadows around the garage. The Jeep was mangled, the body dented and ripped through, windows shattered, the doors dented open. The tires were flat, almost melted against the concrete of the garage. Boxes were strewn, knocked from their tower perches, random items scattered. Waylon limped down the small steps. It was freezing inside the garage, a significant drop from the warm house, Waylon's breath visible. He edged his way through glass shards, peeking into the car. Still smeared with blood, but devoid of the stranger he brought with him.  
  
" _Shit_ -" Panic overtook Waylon as he climbed into the Jeep. His camera was missing as well, and he looks up to see a gash in the roof of the Jeep, metal was peeled back.  
  
Then Waylon hears a cough. Quiet, so quiet he almost missed it. He turned, slow, peeking over his shoulder.  
  
The stranger was propped up against the wall, legs splayed. His head lolled, chin tucked into his chest. The man's tattered shirt was ripped open completely, revealing a black spot between his pecs, charred skin flaking, like a burn. Boxes were strewn around him. On the wall around the stranger's body were dark gray scorch marks, a malevolent halo  
  
Waylon's chest tightened. As much as he wanted to run, he couldn't. His children were in this house. The least he could do was try not to dissapoint them, show them he could protect them. Crouching low, he reaches a shaky hand out.

He brushes the hair back from the man’s face. He was still covered in blood, but looking closer, the man almost seemed familiar. Waylon could have sworn he’s seen him somewhere before…

The mans eyes pop open, gasping deep.

Waylon rears back, yelling and tripping over a box, landing on his side. He kicked away, trying to crawl back to the house. He looked to the doorway, and Frank was standing there, crowbar in hand. He sped down into the garage, kneeling next to Waylon.

“Fuck Waylon, what the Hell are you doing?” Frank looks up, see’s the stranger. The stranger has pressed himself against the wall, staring forward, eyes dull and dead. He opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again.

Waylon watches Franks stand up, his grip tightening on the crowbar.

“Fucker, who the fuck are you?”

The man doesn’t respond, staring straight. He curls his knees up into his chest, hands grabbing at his hair.

“My car….” his voice wavers.

Frank bent down, grabbed the man by his arm.

“Get _up_ ,” he growled, hauling the man up.

Waylon watched as the man was forced up, and saw a shadow pass over his face. Before Waylon could blink, the stranger had pulled his arm back, fist colliding with Frank’s right ribs. Frank crumpled to the ground with a yell, crowbar falling with a clatter. The man grabbed Frank by the back of his shirt, throwing him with great strength into the wall. He grabbed the crowbar, raising it high above his head with a yell.

“Stop!”

The man froze. A hand flew the Waylon’s mouth. _He said that. He stopped him_. The man didn’t move, Frank groaning under him. Surprised at himself, Waylon stumbled over his words.

“Don’t….don’t hurt him, don’t hurt him. Please,” Waylon could hear the croak in his own voice, and felt his throat strain.

The man turned, and Waylon saw two pitch black eyes stare down at him. The man dropped the crowbar. Waylon watched the man double over, fall onto his hands and knees, lurching. Black ash spits from his lips, collecting with saliva and what Waylon can only recognize as coagulated blood. The man wipes his mouth, spit making the dried blood on his mouth crack and smear. His head picks up, and Waylon’s blood runs cold.

The black in the mans eyes receeded, revealing dark brown irises. The mans jaw went slack, eyes rolling back into his head, slumping forward, landing face first into the puddle of ash he vomited.

Frank had pulled himself up, holding his side and flinching as he stood. He shook his head, looking at Waylon.

“What did you bring him here for?”

Waylon laid back against the concrete of the garage floor, staring at the busted ceiling.


	4. New Ally

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Miles makes a friend

**Miles stands, covered in ash and mud. He looks down at his feet. He's standing in a circle of gray rocks, each the size of his fist and jagged, trapping him in. He bends down, grabs one of the rocks. He lifts it, turning it over. The bottom half was black with soil, porous, like a lump of coal. Miles clenched his fist, and the stone turned to dust. He watched the ash slip through his fingers, warm wind carrying it away into the white sky.** ****  
****  
**He wiped his hand on his bare leg, standing, looking up at the massive hill before him. He could see the smokey figure at the top. He could see a slim body, shifting and wisping, so close to being carried away by the hot breeze.** ****  
****  
**Miles raised a hand, giving a half-hearted wave.** ****  
****  
**The figure waved back.** ****  
****  
**"Upshur. "**

 

A soft, low voice stirred Miles from his sleep. His eyes blinked open slow. The day had turned to night, the garage illuminated by moonlight through the windows of the garage doors. He attempted to stretch out his body. Propped up against the garage wall, still facing his Jeep, his legs had no problem finding ground, but his arms were hugged tight to his body. Miles squirmed, looking down at his chest. His arms were tied tight to his body with what Miles could recognize as bike cords. He strained, but there was no give. He looked up.  
  
His Jeep was still destroyed, the garage a mess. And he did it. He thought he was free, for a moment, but the Walrider had possessed him, and now his only cause for existence was to carry it around as a Hell-wreaking vessel.  
  
All of the pent up aggression inside Miles poured out at once.  
  
He screamed, gutteral and low. Out of all the _stupid_ shit he's done in his life, this really took the cake. He was beaten, tortured, had his fingers _snapped off_. He couldn't even _remember_ what happened after he shut the Morphogenic engine down. Now he was tied up in some garage. It could be a Murkoff safehouse, for all he knew. They were going to torture him, suck the Walrider from his blood, torture him more, then dispose of him. Hopefully dispose of him. The chances of being kept for further study is more than likely.  
  
He kicked at the broken glass around him, all of varying sizes. If he searched enough, he could probably find something to kill himself with. It would be slow, probably painful, but it would be something. He wasn't about to let himself be broken. He'd rather die than let Murkoff have the Walrider.  
  
A shadow of movement in the corner of his eye caught his attention. Miles flinched, the back of his head knocking hard against the wall. He grit his teeth, hearing shifting and a gust of wind. When he opened his eyes again, a man was sitting cross-legged in front of him. Miles gasped, tried to kick himself away, but ended up sliding onto the floor.  
  
"Don't be afraid Upshur. I won't hurt you," the man's voice echoed, layering with high and low pitches, slow and eloquent.  
  
The man was young, early 20s, his jawline smooth with no stubble. His hair was light, pulled back out of his face. He seemed almost completely normal, besides being stark naked with wisps of dark smoke around him. His form flickered, reminding Miles' of lights passing through a grate.  
  
"Who are you?" Miles' voice was strained, low.  
  
"  You know me, Upshur  ," the man smiled without teeth, "  You freed me, after all."   
  
Miles' face scrunched in confusion. _Freed_ ? He squints. The man is almost familiar to him, but he can't place him.  
  
The man's legs shift under him, and he sits on his hip, long legs closed. In the sparse moonlight, Miles could see large circular scars on his gut and chest, innumerable and different in size. Miles' face fell.  
  
".... _Hope_?"  
  
The man's smile grew, showing teeth.  
  
" Yes. You freed me, Upshur  ." He reaches a hands towards Miles.  
  
Miles flinched, " _Dont_ -"  
  
Hope grabbed the cords tied around Miles' chest. He pulled, and the cords snapped and fell away.  
  
"This is impossible, you're _dead_ ." His eyes catch a long, slim shard of glass next to Hope, just under his arm.  
  
" I am dead, yes. And now there is no Walrider. There is just me  ."  
  
Miles pushes himself up, rolls his shoulders. He shakes his head. "You aren't real, I'm.... _hallucinating_ or something."  
  
"  A hallucination cannot do this  ," Hope turns his head to look at the Jeep. He looks back at Miles, sheepish, "  I'm sorry for your car  ."  
  
Hope crossed his legs again, looking down at his hands. He clenched them into fists, "  When I woke up, I was so angry. I hurt so much  ," his face fell, black eyes hollow of life, "  Did I hurt you, Upshur ?"  
  
Miles shook his head, sitting up, "No, no - how do you know who I am?"  
  
"  They put me in that machine  ," he touches his stomach, traces his fingers over the circular scars, "  And the Walrider became me. And I became it. And now, I become you, and you become me ."   
  
Anger surges in Miles' gut. _Try taking over my body when I’m dead, asshole._  
  
He lurches forward towards the glass shard.  
  
His body locks up.  
  
He can't move. He can't flex his fingers, move his eyes. But he can move his jaw and tongue. He curses at Hope, gaze fixed on the shard of glass, hand outstretched.  
  
Hope leans his head into Miles' view, laying down on the glass.  
  
"I won't take over your body. I have no desire to enact the violence the Walrider did with me  ," his layered voice hid hints of disappointment.  
  
"Then what _do_ you want?"  
  
" To be free."  
  
Hope's mouth is slightly open, revealing neat rows of grey teeth, black tongue clicking. He turns over on his back, staring up, black smoke curling around him.  
  
Miles feels his body relax, hand falling. He shakes his head.  
  
"This is _fucked_ \- " he sits cross - legged, "Well, you're free now Hope - "  
  
"  Billy. All my friends called me Billy."   
  
"Billy then - you're free now. That doesn't explain how you know who I am."  
  
Hope - Billy - rests his hands on his stomach, "  I'm part of you now. I am you ."   
  
"That doesn't make sense," Miles growls, irritated.  
  
"I am in your blood. I rest in your mind. I have read your memories. I know you now, Miles Upshur  ," he turns his head, " Miles and miles, up, surely."  
  
Angry, Miles stares down at his legs, "So you live inside me now?"  
  
"  Yes. And that is freedom. Thank you, Upshur ."  
  
"Yeah, don't mention it," he stands, brushing off his ripped pants. He doesn't trust Billy, but it's better to keep an ultra - powerful nano weapon with him than let it run around by itself.  
  
He pulls at his shirt. His clothes are ruined, no way to salvage them. He walks around the Jeep. The trunk door was half - open. He lifts the door. The inside of the trunk was fairly intact, despite the caved in sides and roof. He keeps an extra duffle bag of clothes back there for overnights out of town. Inside was four shirts, two pairs of pants, a few pairs of extra socks, and five pairs of underwear.  
  
He pulls his jacket off. It's ripped and covered in dried blood and dust. Miles sighs. It was his favorite jacket. Searching through his pockets, his notes and the asylum files were gone, as well as the camera he found when he woke up the first time in the garage. _Shit_ . He'd have to get those back.  
  
He throws the jacket into the trunk, his destroyed shirt following. Looking down, Miles noticed a large scorch mark running down the middle of his chest, from clavicle to bellybutton. He picked at the peeling skin, ash falling.  
  
"Billy - " he steps around the trunk, pointing to the scar, "What the fuck is this?"  
  
"  My mark  ," Billy replies automatically, like Miles should have already known what it was. He sat up straight, back to Miles, revealing the same burn running from the base of his neck down to his tailbone, "  Our mark  ."  
  
"OK, sure, but what the fuck is it for?"  
  
Billy doesn't respond.  
  
"OK, cool, nothing like a mysterious identifying scar to add to the other pile of shit I have to deal with - " he pauses, "Billy, do you know where we are?"  
  
"  No  ."  
  
"Do you know if it's Murkoff? You've been in that asylum, you know what their equipment looks like."  
  
"I don't know where we are. The people here aren't Murkoff. It's a family. Two boys. A woman, two men. One of the men came with us.”   
  
"What does that mean?"  
  
Billy stood up, turning to Miles. Miles lifted a hand to block his view of Billy from the waist down.  
  
" I saw them torture him - through the Walrider. They beat him. They raped him. They forced him into the therapies. He got out just in time."  
  
Nothing Billy said made sense.  
  
"Is he a danger to the boys?"  
  
"  He wouldn't be alive if he was. I would have killed him," Billy's expression changed to one of quiet determination, "I don't like people like that ."   
  
He wants to get in - depth with his questions, but they don't have the time. Miles finished dressing, putting on a fresh t-shirt, jeans, and a jacket like his old one, but darker and thicker. He dug through the duffle bag. His wallet was still in a side pocket, along with his cellphone and a small pocket knife. His phone was dead, and he swore at himself for forgetting his charger. He rounded the Jeep, stepping around Billy, looking into the passenger side. He reached a hand under the passenger seat, pulling out a small lockbox with a combination lock.  
  
"Could've used this and saved us all the time," he enters the combination - 5 - 6 - 8. Inside is a 9mm. Never used, safety on, fully loaded. He shoved it into his waistband at the small of his back. He's never had to use it before, but if he ever needed to use one, now would be the time. He turns, and Billy is gone. He looks around the Jeep.  
  
"Billy?"  
  
"  Yes  ?"  
  
The voice was coming from inside his head.  
  
"How did you do that?" Miles says aloud, grabbing his duffle bag and slinging it over his shoulder.  
  
" I live within you  ."  
  
The nanos are in the blood - makes sense I'd be able to hear him. He looks towards the right door, the one connecting the house to the garage. Miles crouches low, pulling the gun from his waistband.  
  
" I can scout ahead, Upshur  ," Billy says, wisping into view.  
  
"It's Miles."  
  
" I like Upshur  ."  
  
"Only my editor calls me Upshur. It's just Miles, Billy," he notices warm amber light coming from the door, "Don't have to worry about the boys. Who's the woman you mentioned? The mom?"  
  
Billy nods wordlessly.  
  
"So the other guy - not the guy who came with me - us - is the father?"  
  
"  No  ."  
  
"The guy from the asylum is the father?" Miles' face scrunches. This story was just getting weirder and weirder, "Are they dangerous?"  
  
"  The other man is. He tried to threaten us. He took your things ."   
  
_My notes._ Miles nods, "OK. Can anyone see or hear you besides me?"  
  
"  No  ."  
  
"Perfect."  
  
On cue, Billy's form dissipates into dust. The black flecks clustered under the door. Miles kept his head down, waiting. Billy was gone for ten seconds, before coming back, dust crawling up Miles' arm.  
  
"  The two men and the woman are in the kitchen. No weapons. They have your things  ," Billy says, quiet to match Miles' tone.  
  
Miles nods in silent approval. He peers into the door window.  
  
The kitchen was medium sized, a dining table set in the center, cabinets white wood. At the kitchen table, Miles saw three figures. The woman was tall, her long dark hair pulled back. The one man was standing next to her, comfortably close, a big brute with large shoulders and chest. The other man was sitting in one of the kitchen chairs, holding his shoulders, staring at the scattered papers on the table. The grey camera was hooked up to a large laptop, the standing figures watching intently.  
  
"What do you think, Billy?"  
  
" You should put the gun away  ."  
  
Miles physically recoils, " _What_ ?"  
  
"  The children are in the other room, near the stairs ."  
  
Miles decides Billy is right, and tucks the gun back away.  
  
"I'm gonna knock on the door."  
  
Billy doesn't respond, but Miles decides that's a good sign, and stands up. He steps into the view of the door windows, and knocks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Miles' dreams are IN BOLD
> 
> Waylon's dreams are IN BOLD ITALICS
> 
> Billy's dialogue is UNDERLINED


	5. Stress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Knock, knock
> 
>  
> 
> (Warnings for mentions of previous sexual assaults)

_"I should be dead. I should be dead. I should be dead."_  
  
Waylon shakes. He watched Frank tie the man up, watched him search his body, take papers upon papers out of his pockets. He found a camera - _Waylon's_ camera - in one of the pockets. Waylon almost passed out.  
  
They were going to watch the video, no matter how much Waylon could have begged and pleaded. He had no choice but to let them.  
  
He watches Lisa and Frank organize and read the notes they took from the stranger. There's a combination of the stranger's personal notes in a small notepad, folded letters, incriminating files on Murkoff. It's everything Waylon could have wanted. Evidence. Something to bring Murkoff down.  
  
But he can't take it. He doesn't want to face what happened there, what happened to him.  
  
So he lets Lisa and Frank take over.  
  
Lisa brings his laptop downstairs, hooks up Waylon’s camera to it. The two ask him questions, and he replies the best he can, but it gets lost in nonsensical jumbles or a question triggers him and he can't respond. Lisa and Frank are frustrated, but they try to be gentle with him.  
  
He's sitting at the table, surrounded by grimy paper. He's focused on one note in particular, from the man's notepad. The handwriting is messy, barely legible, stained with blood:  
  
" **_TRAGER. Sick fucker cut my fingers off. Has tortured and mangled dozens of other patients, I watch him murder another one, nothing I can do about it. Talks like a white collar business school douchebag, probably has a set of golf clubs in the trunk of his Audi. I'd bet the rest of my fingers he was Murkoff brass before whatever's infected this place changed him. I want out of this place. I want my fucking fingers back. I want to see Trager die."_ **  
  
Waylon, shaking, realizes that this man came to the asylum, looking for proof against Murkoff. Reading the notes, Waylon could physically feel the man's suffering. His heart beats hard in his throat. He wants to throw up. It has to be _him_ , who else would it be?  
  
As he stares down, he feels a static in his head. It's lasts a few seconds, then his head clears.  
  
Then he hears a soft knock. He looks up at Lisa and Frank, the both of them focused on the laptop. He hears the knock again, louder this time.  
  
Waylon's head twists around. Through the windows of the kitchen door, he sees the stranger. He waves, left hand missing his ring finger, bone jutting out. He doesn't smile, dark bags under his eyes making him look almost skeletal.  
  
Waylon jumps out of his seat, rushing towards the door. Before Lisa and Frank could react, Waylon unlocked the kitchen door and threw it open.  
  
The man took a step back, eyebrows shooting up.  
  
_"_ You're _him_ !" Waylon yelled, voice cracking.  
  
"Waylon what the fuck are you doing!?" Frank almost jumped the table, Lisa's arms flying out to try and catch him.  
  
"You're - " Frank grabbed Waylon from behind, "Upshur! _Miles_ Upshur!"  
  
The man's - Miles' - jaw dropped.  
  
Waylon was yelling, and he tried to fight against Frank, but he was too weak, and Frank was too strong. He dragged Waylon back, forcing him into the chair.  
  
Lisa had rounded the table, " _Stop_ !" she yelled.  
  
Frank's grip wavered, and Waylon pushed himself up using what little strength he had. Frank had never gotten physical with him. It scared him.  
  
"Miles - " he panted, fighting Frank and yelling taking most of the wind out of him, "Miles Upshur -" his leg pulsed.  
  
"I -" his eyes stung. He was so weak, and tired, and guilt ripped through him, " _I_ e-mailed you about Mount Massive. It was _me_ \- "  
  
He fell hard onto his knees, sobbing, grabbing at the bottom of Miles' jacket. Miles stood still, mouth still hanging open. The duffle bag fell out of his hands.  
  
" _I_ brought you there. I should have kept my fucking mouth _shut_ \- this wouldn't have happened, none of this would have _happened_ -" screaming, voice cracking, "I'm _sorry_ , I'm sorry, I'm sorry - "  
  
Waylon had a vice grip on Miles' jacket, eyes squeezed shut, sobbing against his shirt.  
  
"Hurt me, beat me, whatever you do, I deserve it. I deserve _everything_ that happened - " his body shakes violently, "I'm _sorry_ \- "  
  
No matter how many times he said it, 'I'm sorry,' never felt like enough. He lost count at how many times he repeated it, sniffing at Miles' feet. He feels pathetic. Worse than pathetic, he feels worthless. Miles would give him no vindication, and that's how Waylon wanted it. He wanted punishment. He prays for it.  
  
Miles grabs his wrists.  
  
Waylon doesn't bother fighting back.  
  
"Waylon's your name?" Miles voice was a low rumble, void of anger.  
  
Waylon nods, eyes squeezed shut. He hears a shift of fabric. He cracks an eye open, and Miles is kneeling with him.  
  
"Waylon....?" the question is open ended. He lets go of Waylon's wrists.  
  
Waylon wipes at his eyes and nose, "Park. Waylon Park, I - I was a software engineer, we needed the money, they needed my skills, I didn't think that - " he rubbed at his face, "I didn't think I didn't _think_ I didn't - " he wanted to peel the skin off his face. His fingernails bit into his palms. This whole situation was his fault.  
  
"Waylon, I need you to calm down."  
  
Waylon nods so hard his head threatened to fly off, "OK," he couldn't, but he could try.  
  
Miles grabs Waylon by his arm, hauling him into a standing position with incredible strength. Waylon squeaks.  
  
"There you go, pal," Miles says quietly, giving Waylon a hard pat on the shoulder. Up close, Waylon can see his eyes are dull, almost colorless, reminding him of a corpse. He still had dried blood around his mouth and nose.  
  
Lisa grabbed Waylon by the shoulder, pulling him back and away. She stood between the two men. She stared down Miles. He put his hands up defensively.  
  
"Easy, lady, I'm not gonna hurt anyone. "  
  
"That's funny, considering what you did to our garage."  
  
Miles' eyes squinted, "And what I did to my _own_ Jeep. You think I wanted to do that?"  
  
"Maybe, maybe not," she crossed her arms, "Who are you?"  
  
"Waylon knows you, you a friend of his?" Frank asked, holding his side.  
  
"I don't - " Miles took a deep breath, motioning with his hands, "Look, I'm a journalist. I got an e-mail from some anonymous source," he pointed to Waylon, "who I now _know_ , talking about some shady shit that was going on at Mount Massive Asylum, up in the mountains. I investigated."  
  
Waylon turned to the table, grabbing the small notepad. It was dirty, covered in grime and blood. He was a fool, he realizes, as he also wrote down his notes and collected files from the asylum. He collected them in a thick binder, but left it behind escaping -  
  
He shakes his head. _Don't think about it, don't think._  
  
"That place...fuck - " Miles shook his head, "Pure evil. And it looks like Waylon here was a victim of it."  
  
Waylon held the notepad tight as every eye in the room turned on him. Waylon shuddered, looking down at the notes.  
  
"We saw what they did to him," Lisa says, "I got a headache just looking at Waylon in that chair."  
  
Waylon's throat closed, and suddenly everyone felt very, very far away.  


 

 

\-------

 

 

" This is going better than I thought it would  ," Billy says quietly. 

 

Miles nods in agreement. He expected a fight, especially from the big guy. He didn't expect the man - who he now knew was the one who sent him that email - to start screaming a confession and an apology. When he picked Waylon off of the ground, he noticed the man's limp, his body favoring his right side, body language tense. Miles felt sorry for Waylon, and that sorry turned into a hunk of coal that burned in his chest. It was obvious Park suffered a great deal under Murkoff's watch, and Miles was going to make sure they paid for it. Paperwork? Great. Video evidence? Even better. Eyewitness accounts to corroborate everything together? That blew Miles out of the water.  
  
"So that was your camera, Waylon?" Miles asked, peeking over the woman. They needed to talk, and it had to be _now_ .  
  
Waylon nodded quietly, grasping what Miles recognized as his notepad. He's wearing threadbare rags of what Miles recognizes as part of the uniforms of the patients from Mount Massive. The woman steps in front of Miles.  
  
"I'm sorry, I didn't get your name," Miles says, adding a grin. The woman sneers.  
  
"Lisa Park. Waylon's my husband."  
  
Miles extends a hand, "I'm Miles Upshur, as your husband introduced me."  
  
Lisa doesn't uncross her arms, keeping eye contact.  
  
Miles drops his hand. _She's the boss around here,_ he concludes, _better stay on her good side._  
  
Waylon steps out from behind Lisa, holding Miles' notepad, "This is yours," he says, quiet, almost in a trance. His hands shake, "We read them. I'm sorry."  
  
Miles can't understand why Waylon is so apologetic. Wasn't his fault. He tried to do the right thing, _did_ the right thing. What was there to be sorry for?  
  
"Can I have it back," he holds his hand out, "Please."  
  
Waylon nodded, staring at the ground, reminding Miles of a wounded animal. _God, what the fuck did Murkoff do_ ?  
  
Waylon took a half-step, and before he could blink, the larger man standing next to Lisa snatches it from Waylon's hand. Waylon flinches. Miles grits his teeth.  
  
"What the fuck are you doing, Waylon?" The man hisses, "We don't even know who this guy is! And, what, you're just gonna hand all this shit to him? Are you fucking _insane_ ?"  
  
Waylon whimpers, hands flying up to cover his head. Miles feels an itch under his skin, feeling Billy shift inside his chest.  
  
"  I don't like that  ," Billy says, voice dark, "  I don't like that at all, Miles  ."  
  
"I don't either," Miles says under his breath. He clenches his fists, letting the exposed bones of his fingers dig into his skin. _Keep calm, keep calm._  
  
Lisa snatches the notepad from the man, "Frank, that's _enough_ !"  
  
"This, all this," Frank motions towards the table, the laptop, "Is fucking _insane_ ! Murder, cannibalism, _torture_ and shit?! Are you fucking _kidding_ me!?" Frank was beet red.  
  
He jabs a finger in Miles' direction.  
  
"And _this_ \- " he stutters, "I don't even know what to fucking call you!"  
  
Miles flips him off. He hears a tinny laugh from Billy inside his head.  
  
"This," he waved his hands, "Is out of control. We need to call the police, Waylon - "  
  
Miles laughs. It's a hollow, empty sound boiled in anger and frustration. Frank shuts his mouth. Miles ruffles his own hair.  
  
"The police? You think the cops are gonna stop anything Murkoff is doing?" Miles snaps, "I spent _years_ tracking their every fucking move. Out of country, in country, public, behind closed doors, all of it,"  
  
"They pay people off, and who they can't pay off, they kill," he looks at Lisa, "or disappear.  You're lucky Waylon is still standing here. The fact that he can either speak or walk is incredible. No one can help us - "  
  
" _Us?_ " Lisa grits her teeth.  
  
"Yeah, _us._ They'll be on high alert. They'll send people. You think they were only watching Waylon? They have a finger on your pulse, and the pulse of everyone in your family. Everyone in this house is a blip on their radar."  
  
He rubs his face, fingers scraping his skin. _Shit_ . Their odds weren't good. Murkoff has unlimited resources and no morals. Miles has a nanotech weapon that lives inside of him and a gun. Murkoff has a legion of assassins and lawyers. The Park family has a software engineer. _Shit_ .  
  
A pained sob pierced his thoughts.  
  
_Shit_ .  
  
Waylon was little more than a crumpled heap in a wooden chair. Fists curled into his hair, his face was pressed into an empty part of the table, his body wracking with loud wails and sobs. Lisa kneels next to him, rubbing his back, shushing him, trying her hardest to comfort him while Miles noticed a slight shake of her own voice.  
  
Frank holds his head, moving left out of the kitchen. Miles hears his heavy steps fade, a door open, and slam shut.  
  
"  Wailing, wailing  ," Miles hears, "  He hurts, Upshur  ."  
  
Lisa turns her head, hand resting on Waylon's back, eyes glossy. It made Miles' stomach sink.  
  
"They'll kill us, Upshur?" her voice is so quiet, Miles almost doesn't hear her.  
  
Miles nods, "We're all in danger. They won't stop until we're all silenced."  
  
Lisa's head bows, dark hair covering her face. She sniffs, hand wiping at her eyes.  
  
"Um," her voice shakes, "We...we need to talk. Tomorrow."  
  
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Park," he tries to keep his voice as passive as possible, but urgency slips through "But we need to talk about this _now_ \- "  
  
"Tomorrow," she says, as if Miles hadn't spoken, "We'll talk. There's a spare bed in the basement. You can stay there."  
  
Miles shakes his head. He wants to argue. He wants to fight and yell and throw shit around. The Parks don't understand, they have to get all their ducks lined up as fast as possible. It's only a matter of time before Murkoff realizes they're out -  
  
"  Upshur, don't  ." Billy shifts under his skin, and Miles feels the mark on his chest burn.  
  
Miles takes a deep breath. He tamps his anger down. _Fine._  
  
"OK, Mrs. Park. We'll talk tomorrow," he picks up his duffle bag.  
  
"The basement is down the hall. Brown wooden door. Don't let my boys see you."  
  
Solemnly, Miles crosses the kitchen. Nothing left to be said. 

"How nice of her. She's letting you sleep inside instead of the garage ."  
  
" _Quiet_ ," Miles growls.  
  
The kitchen was connected to a sparsely - furnished living room, a long hallway attached. As Miles passes by a tall staircase, he hears the patter of small feet. He glances up just in time to see two blond heads peek out, notice him, and dart away again.  
  
The basement was mostly empty, small piles of cardboard boxes piled against the walls. It was warm, and smelled of stale dirt. There was one bed, metal bedframe holding a twin sized mattress with white sheets and a single pillow. A small window in the far corner barley lights the basement with dim outside light  
  
"Well, I've slept in worse places," Miles dumps his bag on the floor. He kicks off his shoes. The adrenaline of the evening ebbs away, and blackness comes crashing as Miles lays his head down.

 

   ---

  
  
A soft ringing in his head, Miles opens his eyes. The world around him is colorless, shaded in greys, whites, and blacks. He turns his head. Billy is standing at the foot of the basement stairs. His head tilted, he waves a hand.  Come here, Upshur  , he says, mouth unmoving.  
  
Rising from the bed, Miles feels weightless. He can't feel the bed under him, or the ground beneath his feet. He feels the bob and pull of his body, the slight chill of the basement setting in his bones. Billy dissipates into dust, the cloud streaming up the stairs.  
  
" _What's going on?"_ Miles says, his voice swallowed by silence. 

He meanders towards the stairs, hovering his hand over the stonework of the wall. Billy stands at the top of the stairs, hands clasped together.  Hurry Upshur .   
  
" _Hurry? What do you mean?"_  
  
Billy turns into a cloud, streaming left.  
  
" _Where are you going?"_ Miles tries to raise his voice, but nothing escapes his mouth.  
  
Climbing up the stairs, bright moonlight turns the hallway white. Miles watches Billy curl up the banister of the stairs leading to the top floor.  
  
" _Stop, don't go up there_ ."  
  
Miles heart starts the hammer in his chest. _Fuck, fuck._  
  
He runs up the stairs, turning the corner. Billy was standing there, nose an inch away from Miles'. Billy smiles. I won't hurt them, Upshur.  
  
" _What are you doing then?"_  
  
Feeding  .  
  
" _What_ ?"  
  
Their dreams, Upshur. The energy of them.   
  
He disappears.  
  
Upstairs, there's four doors, all the same grim white, wooden floor adorned with a long carpet. Miles watched Billy's swarm duck under a door on the far right. A small creak, and the door opens.  
  
" _Billy_ ?" Miles calls. No answer. _Fuck_ .  
  
He walks towards the door, pushing it open.  
  
Inside, the furniture is worn and wooden, a large bed in the middle of the room, moonbeam pointed towards a figure under the covers. Billy is hovering over this figure, his back to Miles. He raises a hand, curling his fingers.  Over here.   
  
_"Billy? What are you doing_ ?" he closes the door and walks towards the bed. He sees Waylon, lying on his back, lower half covered by silk sheets.  
  
Waylon's face twists, and he groans, hands curling. His body tenses, shakes.  
  
" _Whatever you're doing to him, stop it_ ," Miles hisses, " _We don't want to hurt these people_ ."  
  
I'm not doing anything to him. I'm going to help him. Watch.   
  
Billy grabs the blanket, tearing it off of Waylon in one smooth motion. Waylon is still dressed in a stained and ripped uniform from the asylum, white turned dark with who - knows - what. A rip at the left pant leg reveals a nasty display - the bone of Waylon's leg breaking skin, exposed to the air. Discoloration around the wound tells Miles it's infected. He had noticed Waylon walking with a limp, but the leg was clearly broken. Billy grabs at Waylon's left calf. Miles jumps.  
  
" _Don't_ \- "  
  
Upshur. I won't hurt him. Let me work.   
  
With his free hand, he brushes his hand over Miles' mark.  Please. Trust me, Upshur.   
  
Miles breathes hard out of his nose, " _Fine_ ." He doesn't trust Billy, but he has no choice.  
  
Billy turns his attention back to Waylon. He twists his grip on Waylon's leg. Waylon's back arches off the bed with a yelp, before falling limp. Miles opens his mouth to yell, body moving to grab Billy. But he freezes.  
  
Under Billy's hand, black specks pour from him. They cover Waylon's legs, spreading over his body. It trails from his legs, up his chest, out to his arms. The smoke wisps off his body, latching onto Billy. Miles finds himself hypnotized by the display. He sees Billy tense, back going straight, and a sickening _snap_. He watches as the exposed bone of Waylon’s leg breaks, miscolored skin sloughing off onto the white sheets. The bone recedes into Waylon's leg, the skin healing over, leaving a large dent in the skin making it lopsided. The dead flesh is carried away from the bed by smoke, into Billy's form, leaving behind wet stains.  
  
The overwhelming smell of decay overtakes him, and Miles almost doubles over. He covers his mouth and nose, trying to suck air through his teeth. _Shit_ .  
  
Done  . Billy smiles, turning to Miles.  
  
" _What the fuck was that? Did you...did you_ heal _, his leg?"_  
  
The conversion of energy. I take his blood, the energy of his dreams, convert it. Energy for energy. I made his nightmares heal him instead of hurt him.   
  
Miles looks down at his hands. The bone was still exposed, but he failed to realize the wound had completely healed over. It was as if years of recovery went by in seconds.  
  
He will not be able to walk normal ever again, but this saves him from further infection. I could hear it fester.   
  
" _That's...fuck, that's amazing_." Nanotechnology that can heal wounds in an instant? The more he learns about Billy, the more he realizes that he needs to make sure Murkoff never gets their hands on him.  
  
Billy grins, revealing straight teeth with blunt canines.  
  
Heavy steps outside the bedroom door cause Miles to freeze. He opens his mouth to say something. Billy holds a finger up to his lips.  Shh  . He disappears.  
  
Miles grabs the blanket from the floor, throwing it back over Waylon's lower half. He hears the doorknob turn. Nowhere to go, he dives under the bed.  
  
The door opens, slowly without a sound. Miles saw pairs of feet walk into view. One with grey sneakers, the other with worn slip - on slippers. _Frank and Lisa_ , he thinks.  
  
The two close the door behind them, moving to the front of the bed.  
  
"He's out cold," Miles hears Frank say, hushed, "Now would be a good time - "  
  
" _Tomorrow_ ," Lisa snaps, voice just under a whisper, "We can't snatch him in his sleep."  
  
"Will he even come with us?"  
  
"Why wouldn't he?"  
  
"Well...you saw him, he ran from us - "  
  
"He didn't know it was _us,_ Frank."  
  
Miles stays hidden.  
  
"He's scared... _I'm_ scared, Frank. This is more than I imaged it to be." Miles saw her cross the room, to the window on the right.  
  
"Are you going to tell him?" Frank's voice was barely audible, more of a thought that escaped than a question.  
  
"Tell him what?"  
  
"About...about us,"  
  
Miles' eyebrows shoot up. _No way._  
  
Lisa pivots on her heel.  
  
"Are you fucking _kidding_ me?" her voices raises, a little louder than the almost - whisper, "Not _now_ . We _can't_ ."  
  
"But he needs to know. Lisa, when you invited me here - "  
  
"I _invited_ you? You were _desperate_ to come here. I needed you here because I'm doing what needs to be done for my kids - "  
  
"Your kids, or just you? Me fucking you doesn't seem that helpful for them."  
  
Miles chokes down a gasp. _No fucking way._  
  
Before Lisa can respond, Waylon groans. Miles feels the bed shift and dip with his movement. Frank and Lisa freeze. They wait a few seconds, but Waylon doesn't move otherwise.  
  
"I'm not telling him, not yet, and you won't tell him either. Not until I say so," Lisa crosses the room, into Frank's personal space, "Got it?"  
  
Frank doesn't respond. She leaves the room. He stays, unmoving for a minute, before following her. He closes the door.  
  
Miles is stunned. He waits a few minutes, before crawling out from under the bed.  
  
That was...interesting.   
  
" _You said it_ ," Miles opens the door a crack. Seeing that the hallway is empty, he exits the room, " _It's not our business, you understand? We aren't gonna say anything about it_ ." The last thing Miles needs is to get kicked out because he accidentally stumbled upon this fucked - up love triangle.  
  
Alright Upshur . 

Miles hurries back downstairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ah, fuck ok. lets gooooooooooooooooo


	6. Regenerate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reveal yourselves.
> 
>  
> 
> (Warnings for post previous sexual assaults and childhood physical assaults)

Lisa wakes him up, fresh cup of coffee in her hand. She helps him sit up in the bed.

"It's hot," she warns him. He takes the cup, but doesn't drink from it. He places it back on the table.

"How did you sleep?" She asks. Worry slips through her usual hard demeanor.

"Weird dreams," He says flatly. _**Miles grabs his leg, twists, bone snapping. Blackness sends him tumbling down, down, down....**_

Lisa's hand brushes his hair. When Blair had him locked up, they shaved his head. His hair was longer now, but failed to regain the length it was before. Her hand moved down from his head to his chin. Her fingers cut at his skin, small pricks of a razor. She let's a small smile slip.

"You should shower," she says.

 _Shower_. He remembers being forced to bathe in the shower block, back at the asylum. Supervised. They did what they liked with him. And there was nothing he could do to stop them.

He shakes his head.

She leans in for a kiss.

He can't reciprocate it.

Body tensing as her soft lips hit his, his fingers dig into his thighs. _Stop, stop, stop -_

Ricky bursts into the room, young Ben following. They yell and scream, dive under the bed. Waylon shoots up, starting to rush out of the bed.

"What? What is it?"

"The dead man! In the basement!" Ben squeaks, "He's alive!"

"Benjamin and Richard Park," Lisa scolds, standing up, hands on her hips. The boy's heads poke out from underneath the bed, "I told you not to go down there."

Ricky crawls out from under the bed, standing up, hands playing at the hem of his shirt, "Sorry mom."

Ben quickly follows behind, "Sorry mom."

Lisa sighs, emotionally exhausted, "Go get ready, you'll be late for school."

The boys nod solemnly, walking out of the room. Ricky closes the door behind him.

Waylon was almost grateful for the interruption.

When the boys left, Lisa turned back to Waylon, "I made breakfast. Me and Frank are downstairs whenever you're ready to talk with Upshur."

  
\----

  
"Is he dead?"

"No, he's not _dead_ , stupid! He's just sleeping."

"I don't know...he's not breathing."

Miles' eyes shoot open. In his view were two boys, both blond, both no older than ten. The boys froze, then shot like bottle rockets away and up the stairs, yelling. The basement door at the top slams shut. Miles sits up, rubbing the sand from his eyes and stretching his body out. Sunlight that filtered through the small basement window, giving the room a yellow glow. He looked up to see Billy sitting on the edge of his bed. He had a smile on his face.

"Those boys are funny," he says, finger tracing a smoke curl in the air, "I remember being curious like that."

Miles pulls his shoes on, "Yeah, me too." He remembers wanting to learn everything he could as a kid. He wanted to unwrap and unravel the story of everything he could get his hands on. That followed him throughout his whole life.

"How was your life growing up, Billy?" he asks. He got almost nothing from the files he found - Billy had a mom, but that was about it.

Billy's face is surprisingly stoic, "It was a simple life. I was raised by my mother, my father....gone. Never knew who he was. Mama never talked about him."

"But you asked?"

"Of course I asked. As a child. But I got older, and I found that I didn't care as much. I only knew my mother. That was all I needed." his hollow eyes turn to Miles. He opens his mouth to say more, but quickly shut it.

Deciding to probe more, Miles opens up.

"I grew up mainly with just my mom. My dad, he was..." _a bastard_ , "In and out of my life. Never cared about me, never cared about my mom," _I was the only thing tying him to her, and he hated me for it._

"I saw. You fought with him."

"You...how did you know that?" _I hate you. I wish your whore mom listened to me and aborted you._

Heavy footsteps above catch Miles attention. He hears the basement door open, an uneven gait trudging down the stairs. He expects to see Lisa, but instead Waylon's sandy head pops into view around the basement wall. Miles stands, and Waylon ducks slightly.

"Good morning," Miles says, fixing his clothes.

"Morning," Waylon responds, quiet. He waits a few seconds.

"Are you alright, Park?"

Waylon nods. He limps down the last few steps. In one hand was a plate of toast and bacon, and in the other a tall mug of of what Miles hopes is coffee. Suddenly, the basement is filled with the scent of breakfast, something Miles hasn't had in over three days. It's overwhelming. Miles feels his senses heighten.

"I brought...I brought you breakfast," Waylon says. He stays by the bottom of the stairs, "Did my boys bother you? We told them not to come down here." He's still wearing his uniform from the asylum.

Miles shakes his head, "Not at all." _No snitching_.

"Oh...good," Waylon stays still, leaning slightly on his right side.

Remembering the events of last night, Miles gestures to Waylon, "Are you OK? You look a little sick," Miles crosses the room, slow and passive, "You should sit down."

Before Waylon can utter a word, Miles herds him towards the bed, sitting him down near his pillow. Billy has disappeared. Despite the twist of hunger in his gut, Miles doesn't grab the plate of food or the mug in Waylon's hands.

Closer now, Miles can smell the scent of urine and blood on Waylon's clothes.

"How long have you been home, Waylon?" Miles asks. Waylon shrugs, eyes pointed to the floor. _Don't let him shut down_.

"It's kind of you to bring me breakfast. Thank you," Mountain hospitality. Rude to leave a stranger without a meal.

Waylon let's a shaky breath escape his lips, "No problem," he holds the plate and the mug out.

Miles takes it, hungrily, scarfing down the bacon and toast in only a few seconds. It's a simple meal, but Miles had never felt so grateful. He takes a careful gulp of the coffee.

"It's black, I'm sorry,"

"Don't apologize, I like it black. Wakes me up in the morning. I sure as hell need it, after all... _that_ ," he wipes his hands on his pants, "Thank you, Waylon."

Waylon's fists ball tight against his thighs, slight tremor in his shoulders.

"Did you come into my room last night?" his voice is strained and tight.

"No, I didn't. I was here the whole night. What happened?" Miles responds, unfazed. Years of dealing with nosey teachers, asshole police, and antsy interviews had helped him perfect the art of bullshitting.

"You'll think I'm crazy," Waylon pulls at his pants. It reminds Miles of a child about to expose a secret.

Miles bends down to put his coffee on the floor, turning his body towards Waylon more.

"Park, do you know what I think? I don't think you're crazy."

Waylon doesn't say anything. Miles continues.

"I think bad things happened to you. I think that you have suffered, a great deal, and you need someone to help you through it. You aren't crazy." It's a line he's repeated more times than he can count. He's interviewed hundreds of people with PTSD and trauma, from sex workers to people who've survived natural disasters. They don't need people pitying them, they need people to believe in them. They need support and systems that allow them to heal. That's all Waylon needs. _Help._

"Tell me what happened last night."

Waylon sits up, staring straight, sucking in a nervous breath.

"I was in bed. I saw you standing over me. You grabbed my....my _leg_ \- " he stands, putting all his weight onto his right leg. He pulls the left pant leg up. Standing, Miles could see more clearly the large fleshy dent that ate up half of Waylon's left calf, a long pink scar running from the side of his ankle to his knee. "Miles, my leg was _broken_. The bone was pushed _out_. It _couldn't_ have healed overnight!"

A flutter of smoke catches Miles attention. He turns his head slightly, looking past Waylon. Billy was hidden in the corner, shadow hiding his upper body, lower body on display. He leans forward, grin catching the light.

And Miles thinks, " _Maybe Billy doesn't exist_." For all Miles knows, Billy could be a side effect of the Walrider's abilities. Maybe there is no Billy. Maybe there is no Walrider. Maybe there's just Miles. Keeping his breathing steady, Miles stares back at Waylon's leg.

"You sure I was there? I didn't leave the basement the whole night."

Waylon's brows knit. He looks away.

"I...I was _sure_ I was awake. Then you grabbed me, and I blacked out," he drops his pant leg, flinching. Miles jumps to his feet.

"You should be sitting down," he says, irritation bubbling. He grabs Waylon's arms and leads him back to his seat on the bed. Miles knows the wound has healed completely, he was sure if you MRI'd Waylon, you'd never know it was broken the night before, "For all you know, it could still be broken."

"It's not, it hurts, but it's not broken."

"And how do you know that?" Miles says defensively. He tries not to think about if Billy actually healed him, or if he was just hallucinating and it really was him -

He feels a hand grab his wrist.

Looking down, he realizes he's holding Waylon's shirt much too tight. He sees the fabric's stretch marks as he lets go. Waylon's eyes are big, tears threatening to edge. Miles takes four steps back, putting as much distance between the two as he can. He tries to push down the rage and irritation inside of him, but nothing goes.

"I'm sorry," Miles whispers, "I don't know what came over me - " he looks in the corner. Billy nods.

"Tell him. He won't understand, but he deserves to know."

"No," the last thing Miles wants to do is send Waylon into a frenzy.

"Upshur, he deserves to know. You're in his home."

Miles closes his eyes, runs a tongue over his teeth. He's backed into a corner. Billy is right, Waylon deserves to know if the thing that caused all this pain was here.

"You're right, Park," uncomfortably, he shoves his hands into his pockets, "Your leg's _not_ broken, and I _was_ in your room last night. But it wasn't me who fixed your leg."

Waylon shakes his head, pulling himself farther onto the mattress. His eyes dart back from the corner Miles was staring to, to the stairs, to Miles, back again. It irritated Miles more than he wanted it to.

"It's...you know Billy Hope?"

Waylon nods slow, back pressed against the wall, "William Hope."

"He's...fuck I don't even _know_ how to fucking explain this - " Miles paces, trying to sort his thoughts out, "He's...the Walrider wasn't him. The Walrider was _born_ from him. I went into the labs in the basement of that place - I killed Billy Hope. But that didn't stop the nanotech floating around. I don't know how, or why, but he chose me as the next host - " he waves a hand, hoping smoke would fly out of his fingertips. None did.

Waylon looks ready to flee.

"He's...he's not a bad guy. He's not the Walrider. He's Billy Hope - " as the words fly out of his mouth, Miles can't even believe them himself. He knows nothing about Billy, knows about a handful about Project Walrider, and nothing past falling onto the ground where the Walrider dropped him. Maybe Billy did choose him, maybe he's not the Walrider. But Miles can't be sure. "He fixed your leg."

Waylon's stare is almost painful. It seeps deep into Miles' core. It's been a long time since he's been stared at like this. A look of pure _fear_.

"So you're going to kill us?" Waylon's mouth barely moved. It made Miles almost gasp, heart jumping into his throat, anger burning at the back of his mind.

"No, no _no_ , Park - I'm not killing anyone. We can't let this fall back to Murkoff. You have to tell me what you saw in the asylum."

  
\----

Waylon was always soft. People told him that his entire life. His heart was too big for his body. He always felt that the right thing needed to be done. Kindness was held above all else. Then he and Lisa fell on hard times. Bill after bill piled up. There would be weeks where they could barely afford to keep the fridge full. He knew Murkoff was bad news, he'd read article after article (mostly Miles' articles,) about the horrid shit they'd do. But he couldn't pass up a job paying that much. They couldn't afford it.

Now? He'd rather be homeless with his family than ever get involved with Murkoff. He'd rather be _dead_ than have ever brought Miles Upshur into his home.

He listens, tries not to scream or cry or run. He wishes he had some bravery in him, wishes something stopped him from pulling Miles into that Jeep... _Miles_ ' Jeep....

And then the guilt eats him alive. Miles would never have come if he didn't contact him. Miles wouldn't be missing two fingers, looking like a dead man walking. Miles wouldn't be telling him he faced the Walrider - and lived. Miles wouldn't have experienced Hell and back.

Miles wouldn't have let those things happen to him without a fight.

"So you're going to kill us?" Waylon's chest sank when he saw the betrayed, hurt look on Miles' face.

Waylon rubs at his leg, feeling the strange indent. It still hurts, pulses every time he leans any weight on his left side, but the green discoloration was gone. Miles did that. Miles helped him.

Pressed up against the wall, Waylon wants to cry. So far, Miles hasn't raised his voice in anger, hasn't hit Waylon. Miles grabbed him, sure, but he apologized. Waylon doubted Miles meant any real harm. Miles has treated him nothing but fairly, after all Waylon had put him through. If he wanted to kill anyone, he would have done it already.

"You have to tell me what you saw in the asylum."

Waylon can't. He _can't_.

He shakes his head. Miles' expression darkens, slightly, but relaxes quickly after.

"We need to get upstairs. I need to see your camera."

" _That's fair_ ," Waylon thinks, " _That's perfectly fair. He can watch it, and shame me for it, it's my punishment._ " They had taken his things, read through his notes, Frank almost beat him, tied him up.

Miles approaches him, and Waylon sinks back even more, trying to meld with the wall behind. Miles extends his hand. He doesn't step any closer.

Waylon gives Miles a nervous once - over. He doesn't understand why Miles is treating him like this. So _fair_. He doesn't deserve it.

"Park? C'mon," Miles keeps him voice even. For what reason, Waylon doesn't know. He'd rather Miles scream and yell and manhandle him up the stairs.

Waylon takes his hand. Miles hauls him up with great ease. Miles was stout with broad shoulders and big arms, but the strength he possessed was unexpected, and Waylon ends up falling into his chest. Miles doesn't so much as grunt at the contact.

"Easy," he says. He doesn't push Waylon away, but moves himself to Waylon's left, holding Waylon's arm around his shoulders, other hand around Waylon's waist. This allows Waylon to support himself on just his right.

"You might need a leg brace, Park. Maybe an arm crutch."

Waylon doesn't say anything as Miles helps him up the stairs. He counts the 15 old wooden steps on the way up in his head.

Miles leads him into the kitchen. The boys were gone, off to school. Lisa is busy dumping dishes into the sink, clearing off the table. Frank stands next to her, muttering something Waylon can't hear. Lisa had already taken Miles' papers and organized them into piles, camcorder still hooked into his personal laptop. Lisa sees Miles with Waylon around his shoulders and drops what she's doing, pulling out a chair.

"What happened?" she asks, helping Waylon into the chair.

"Nothing happened, he's got a limp," Miles shrugs off his jacket, throwing it onto the back of an empty chair.

Waylon is powerless to stop Lisa from pulling his pant leg up. She gasps, "Oh my _God_ ," tracing the outside of the scar. Her fingertips feel like fire, and Waylon pulls his leg away. He wants to ignore the look of hurt on her face.

"How did this happen? Tell me, baby," _Baby_. Waylon's skin crawls. Ghostly hands grab at his throat, scratch at his arms and legs. _Stop, stop -_

He feels static in his head. He looks at the table, focusing on the papers. He counts the stacks. One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four.

Miles rounds the table, grabbing his notepad. He grimaces, wiping his hand over the cover. He's wearing a t - shirt, strong arms rippling as he organizes his notes. It throws Waylon's rhythm off, but ends up distracting him enough that the feel of hands on him disappears. Miles grabs the camera.

"Have you watched any of this?" Miles says, not looking up.

"I have," Lisa says, standing next to Miles, "It starts off with Waylon in this room, tied to a chair - " _Open those eyes, you don't have to wake up, but open your eyes._

The static grows, drowning out Lisa's voice. His throat closes, chest constricting.

 _I can't breathe_ , he thinks, _I can't breath._

 

\----

 

 

Miles knows a panic attack when he sees one. It starts with a glazed over look, the shut down, a shortness of breath. He's dealt with plenty of survivors over the years, dealt with his own panic attacks as a teen. He remembers Billy, speaking about Waylon in the garage the night before, " _They beat him. They raped him. They forced him into the therapies_." Waylon needs space, and an environment free of tension. When it came to male victims, Miles found it more beneficial to remove all spouses and friends from the room. Removal of people they know removes the shame, in a way.

If Lisa or Frank see, they'll shut everything down.

Without making Waylon's condition obvious, he gestures to Frank and Lisa, "First things first, I need you two to do me a favor."

Lisa and Frank mutter acknowledgements.

"You two need to leave the room, and give Waylon some space."

"We aren't leaving you alone with him," Franks says, arms crossed, leaning against the sink. Miles doesn't doubt Frank cares about Waylon, but he's making it damn hard not to.

"Do you want me to help him, or do you want to be an asshole and prove a point?"

Frank opens his mouth to reply, but is stopped by a glare from Lisa. He grimaces. Lisa nods her head, obviously not happy with Miles' request, "Whatever he needs." She pulls at Frank's arm, leading him out the front door.

When Miles hears the door close, he puts the camera down. He takes an empty mug from the kitchen counter, dumping cold coffee into the sink, rinsing the mug out, then filling it with cold water from the faucet. He carries the mug to Waylon, setting it down in front of him.

"Waylon?" his voice is quiet. Waylon's glassy eyes dart to Miles. Miles keeps a safe distance, four feet away, standing next to the sink.

"I know what you're feeling right now, OK?" It's been months since the last time he's done an exercise like this, "You need to remember, you aren't dying, you're gonna be fine. Take a deep breath, OK? Close your eyes, and just breath."

Billy is sitting in the middle of the table, watching Waylon with quiet fascination.

Waylon closes his eyes, breathing deep.

"Hold it in for a second," Miles copies his breathing, holding it in. He breathes out, "And breath out."

They continue the exercise for, what Miles guesses, is around fourteen minutes, the usual time for a panic attack. Miles sees Waylon relax in his chair, leaning forward to lay his head on the table.

"Drink some water, you'll feel better. All that panicking is prone to cause dehydration."

Waylon cautiously takes a sip of the water. Miles waits another three minutes of Waylon calming down in the aftermath.

"You're gonna be fine, Park." His promise is hollow. He doesn't know if Waylon will ever heal from what happened to him, but Miles can offer him comfort where he can.

Waylon nods. Billy forms behind Waylon, two greying hands holding his shoulders, locking eyes with Miles. Miles shoots him a glare. _I know what I'm doing._

"You have to be strong about this, Park. Think of your kids. They need their dad to be strong. You can do this." Reinforcement of strength and worth. Waylon nods again. _Let's get down to it._

"Have you read all of the files here, Park?"  
  
Waylon's tongue darts out to wet his cracked lips, "Just your notebook."

Miles pushes the rest of the files into Waylon's direction, "I took these with me, but I had a camera as well. Did you come across another video camera? A small black one, one with a cracked screen?"

Waylon shakes his head, "No, no black cameras. Just grey ones, like mine. It was so dark in there, I had to use the night vision setting."

"Did you happen to stumble upon any files there?"

Waylon's lips purse, slightly nodding, "I did...I lost them."

"Where?"

"Back at the...I just left them behind."

"He's holding back," Billy says.

 _No shit_ , Miles wants to say back. The more Waylon speaks, the more Miles realizes something that makes his blood curdle.

"We need to get those back, Waylon."

Waylon freezes.

"We have to go back to Mount Massive."

He meets Miles' gaze, "I can't go back there." His voice shakes.

Miles sits down at the table. He needs to convince Waylon to come with him, or at least tell him where the files are.

"Waylon, why did you e-mail me about Murkoff?"

Waylon's mouth becomes a tight line. He thinks for a few seconds, "It was the right thing to do."

"Right. It was the right thing to do. You wanted to expose Murkoff and make sure no one else got hurt by these dicks."

"Yes."

"Well, we only have part of the story. You have your video evidence, and I have my files. But we're missing your files, and my video evidence. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

"We don't...have all of the things we need to expose Murkoff," Waylon says, slow, as if Miles would beat him for the wrong answer. Miles grins, nodding.

"We need corroborating evidence. We can't just have two wires crossing, we need the whole bomb."

"And that makes us the bomb,"

Miles flattens his hands on the table. He can feel the twitch of his missing fingers. He realizes that his injuries and experiences feel far away. They feel like someone else's story, and he's just repeating what they felt, like the countless interviews he's done before, "We need those files, and I need my camera back."

Waylon's dead stare almost worries Miles. He takes a deep breath.

"I'll make you a deal Waylon. You come with me to Mount Massive, show me where you lost the files, help me get my camera back, and I disappear out of your life. I will make sure none of this comes back to you or your family."

Billy's face fell. "Don't promise him that, Upshur, they'll find out he's alive. They will all suffer."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter 6 and we are slowly getting their.....we're gettin there squad....we're getting there....


	7. Plans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Waylon eavedrops. Miles has an outburst. 
> 
>  
> 
> (warning for allussions to physical abuse and mentions of previous sexual assaults)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this fic I explore two extremes of trauma. Waylon experienced trauma that shattered his sense of security, and in turn, shattered him. Miles experienced trauma that enraged him to his core, and numbed him from any emotion that wasn't rage, he's fully aware of his issues, but doesn't now how to cope.
> 
> This is not a fic about trauma itself, though. I'm trying to write a fic about two people who've experienced trauma, lived through it, and show that they can heal from terrible events in their life. together. I allude to and include pieces of both of them remembering their trauma, but other than their inner memories, I am not and will not be posting any detailed assaults in full.
> 
> If you are looking for some fetishy trauma fic, please look somewhere else
> 
> I drew some ref sketches for waylon, miles, and billy here:
> 
> http://5un5yst.tumblr.com/post/182362719583/waylon-miles-n-hopeurgh-still-cnt-get-miles

It's almost too good to be true.

" _None of this will come back to you or your family_."

He holds his arms, scratching at his skin.

"Just me and you...no one else will be involved. Well, besides Billy but I'm not sure he counts."

 _William Hope_. Waylon was sure he was never getting out of that tank they put him in. But as Waylon goes, he learns nothing stops at death. He hasn't seen the Walrider yet, but what else could have caused that damage in the garage? What else could have healed his leg? He didn't even know the Walrider had regenerative abilities.

But the more Waylon sits down with Miles, the more he trusts Miles. Miles has given him no reason not to. Every question he's been asked, Miles has answered with transparency.

"What do you say, Park? Help me get our shit back. Help me expose Murkoff for the monsters they are."

Waylon bites his lip. If he says no, he can't be sure his family will be safe. Murkoff will find out he's alive, find out where his family is. Then there's Miles, who never would have come if Waylon hadn't opened his mouth. Waylon owes him at least his help. If not his help, he owes Miles his loyalty.

Waylon nods, "Let's do it."

Miles cracks a grin, marks at the corners of his eyes creasing. It fills Waylon with a sense that they might actually have a chance.

"Let's compare notes," Miles says. He rifles through the papers, putting down two sheets Waylon recognizes as official files from the labs. One mentions Trager, the other Chris Walker, both of whom Miles mentioned in his notes.

"I had to face two assholes there - both dead now. We might have trouble with some others, but we should be able to handle them," with ' _be able to handle them_ ,' Miles brandishes a handgun, placing it flat on the table. Waylon is fixed on it. He feels his nails break skin. _Merry Hell. What kind of journalist carries a gun_?

"Are there any you saw that might give us a hard time?"

Gluskin's _dead_. Blair is _dead_. They're all _dead_. But they don't _feel dead._

"Maybe...a few there, I - I don't remember who," Waylon wished he read the files more, focused harder. He could be helpful. He could be _useful_.

Miles's gaze turns past Waylon, focusing on something behind his head. Miles' lips quirk into a grin.

"We'll find out. Do you have anything that might get us through the place? A keycard, password, anything like that."

"A few codes, if they didn't lock my access yet. Most of the physical locks you could break open if you had the right equipment."

"Like what?"

"Crowbars, hammers, anything like that. Things that the patients there could never get."

Miles nods, "That's good, Waylon. That's helpful. It helps us get through there faster and safer."

 _It helps us._ The half - compliment makes a blush crawl up Waylon's neck.

Miles leans back into his chair. He gestures to the papers, the laptop.

"All this? We aren't going to worry about until we get back. We'll start off with my footage when we find it, and if you want to, we'll review yours."

" _If you want to_." Waylon can't remember the last time he was asked his permission.

"I think I know where I left my camera, but if we can't find your notes...was it just files?"

"No, no I....I wrote down letters," _I thought I was going to die there_.

Miles nods knowingly, "Shame if we can't find them, then. Personal notes would be great for pulling it all together."

Miles pushes himself from the table, closing the laptop and gathering the papers, "Do you have somewhere we can hide these?"

"Not really...we just moved in a few weeks ago," he pauses, "Maybe in the basement?"

Miles grabs the camera, "Great. Hold on." Miles disappears.

Waylon, left alone, looks down at his arms. He's scratched long lines into his skin, flesh ripped and bleeding. Waylon shakes.

" _Look what you did to yourself_ ," the blood drips down his wrists. He counts the scratches. Four red lines on each arm, eight altogether. The shaking stops. _One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight._

A hand brushes his shoulder. Waylon jumps out of the chair. He bangs his good leg into the table, twisting around, ready to run.

Miles had his hands up, shoulders slightly hunched.

"Easy, Park, it's just me." _Stupid, stupid. It's just Miles._

Waylon squeezes his eyes shut, breathing deep, head ducked. He shouldn't expect someone to grab him, he _shouldn't_.

"Sorry, sorry - " Waylon wrung his hands, flexing his fingers.

Miles' eyes trail down, following Waylon's movements. His eyebrows raise. Waylon crosses his arms, trying to cover the scratches. He doesn't want Miles' pity.

"You should get dressed," Miles says, keeping any thoughts he had to himself, "Do you need help getting upstairs?"

Waylon shakes his head. _Don't pity me, don't help me. Hate me. I want you to hate me._

"Do you want me to call Lisa in?"

 _"No,_ " strained panic edges through.

"I'd rather leave as soon as possible, but if you need a day to - "

"No, no," there's no reason to drag this on any longer than they have to, "We'll go. Later. This afternoon. I just need to get ready," he says, voice weak.

Miles nods his head, "Whenever you're ready."

Waylon keeps his eyes pointed to the floor as he passes Miles. He makes it up the stairs, into his bedroom. He closes the door.

"Should I shower?" _The water runs cold as their hands close around his throat_ , "No, no..." He'd have to be naked to shower. He didn't want to be. So exposed, so _ugly_.

He limps towards his wardrobe, opens it. He rifles through the folded shirts, pushing aside an array of colors. Nothing caught his interest. Nothing felt _right_. Tearing apart his closet, he lets his clothes pile up on the floor. Blues and greys are numb to his senses, reds pass without notice. He finds a white long sleeve with a high neck. The clean white color calms him and settles his nerves. He pulls it over his uniform shirt. It bunches oddly at the armpits, but otherwise fits him fine. He looks for pants next. A pair of faded brown jeans catch his attention. He pulls those over his ragged pants, threads bunching at the knees.

Next to his wardrobe was Lisa's wardrobe. Inside one of the doors was a full body mirror. Looking at himself, Waylon thought the mirror broken. His dirtied, exhausted version of himself stared with dulled eyes. His clothes hung loose and oddly on his body. His sandy hair was short cropped, with a dusting of hair on his chin. He had multiple scars on his cheeks, chin, and forehead. He runs a careful hand over them. They're completely healed over. Waylon pauses. _Did Miles....did Billy do this too?_

 _Billy doesn't exist, idiot. It's all Miles._ Maybe Miles, like Waylon has, is having strange hallucinations as well, imagining the Walrider as a ghostly hand guiding his deeds.

"At least they're good deeds," Waylon muses, staring at his bad leg in the mirror. You can barely tell he's injured through his pants. He can't apply pressure without sharp pain shooting up his thigh.

He closes Lisa's wardrobe. He bends down at his own, pulling open a bottom drawer he usually puts his few pairs of shoes in. He pulls out a pair of brown hiking boots, and a pair of wheat - colored thick socks. He sits on the bed, carefully pulling the sock and boot up on his left foot. He doesn't feel any pain sitting down.

He notices a blur of brown on the back of the bedroom door. Looking up, he see's a brown coat hanging on the back. The color is a faded dark brown that Waylon recognizes as one of his fall coats, brought out during the move. He shuffles towards it. The canvas is soft and worn, thick with deep pockets and a wool collar to protect the neck from cold wind. He pulls it on, letting himself be enveloped by familiarity. He walks back to the bed to check the nightstand. His coffee is still there, cold and untouched. He opens the drawer, grabbing the large flashlight they keep stashed and shoving it into his pocket.

Feeling somewhat satisfied with himself, he heads back downstairs. He counts the doors in the hallway - four - and counts the stairs on the way down - 17.

Miles is gone from the kitchen, duffle bag laid on the table. Waylon can hear voices on the other side of the front door. He doesn't open the door, instead cautiously standing inside, peering out a side window. Miles and Lisa are standing off the porch, Frank sitting on the front steps.

"....smoke, Upshur?" Lisa holds out her cigarette pack, offering one to Miles. Waylon's eyes narrow. _I thought she stopped smoking._

Miles waves an injured hand.

"No, I don't, thanks though."

"Do you really need my car?" Frank asks him. His back to the door, Waylon can only hear his voice.

"You want me to try to drive mine?" Miles bites back.

"Waylon took our station wagon to work - might still be there. Should one of us go with you?" she taps ash from her cigarette.

"No, this is something we need to do ourselves," Miles pauses, "Actually, can I bum a smoke?"

Lisa hands him her pack.

"Thanks. Anyway, if we get caught, it can't come back to you. No reason getting you two involved," he tries to pick up a cigarette with his right hand, before switching to his left. He hands the pack back, taking Lisa's lighter.

"Waylon's my husband, Frank's known us for years, we're already involved."

"You don't want to be. Listen - " Miles takes a drag, tapping ash out, "I know, you want to help Waylon, get a little revenge for what happened to him. I'd want that for my husband. But the last thing you want to do is get caught up with the shit that's there. They'll do more than bury you in legal paperwork for what I found there."

"So you've said," Frank says, mussing his hair, "Still don't understand how all that shit could happen."

"Humans aren't evil," Miles says, staring off into the distance, "Not by nature. But with the right circumstances, it's not hard to turn us. It's easy to be evil with a smokescreen of money - pay off the people who try to stop you. That's what all this shit's about - committing ethical violations to turn a profit," he breathes out smoke, "Not like Murkoff has never done that anyway."

"I used to catch Waylon reading articles about the shit Murkoff's done. It's almost a coincidence they offered him a job," Lisa stabs her cigarette out on a small glass ashtray on the porch banister.

Waylon thinks of the letter they got in the mail, at their old apartment. It was almost a Godsend, it came in as they were about to get evicted the month after. It asked for a software programmer, with a college education. All Waylon did was call the number on the letter, say ' _yes,_ ' and then he and his family were piled into their station wagon and on their way to Colorado. Murkoff even paid him an advance to get settled in a home close by. Waylon shivered. _How long had they been watching us_?

"That's their M.O. They tried to hire me for their company, too. Wanted me to be an advertising agent, spread the good word about them. Told them to stick the offer up their asses," Miles takes another drag, "They drug my name through the dirt, got me fired from two separate news websites, threatened me with legal action more than once."

"But you never stopped reporting on them?" Lisa asks.

"Never. More people would've gotten hurt if I didn't. It felt like I was the only one out there writing on them like I wasn't sucking them off on my knees."

"Ew," Frank says.

"Yeah, well, what're you gonna do. Money talks and buys your silence," Miles snuffs out his cigarette in the ashtray.

"Me and Waylon are gonna leave for the mountains whenever he's ready. Could me in ten minutes, could be in the next hour. Don't know when we'll get back, but when we do, I'll take care of my car. Until then, don't let anyone into the garage. Don't let anyone into the basement either, I stashed all the evidence in there. And if anybody, _anybody_ , doesn't matter if it's police, neighbors, strangers, whatever, comes asking, we were never here. For all you know, Waylon's still at work, and you've never heard of a journalist sniffing around."

Lisa nods, "We never saw you, Waylon's still at work."

Miles picks his head up, staring through the window into the house, directly at Waylon. Waylon spins out of his view, pressing his back flat against the door.

Waylon can still feel Miles' eyes on him.

" _What have I gotten myself into?_ "

 

  
-

 

"It's nice of Frank to let us borrow his car," Billy says, sitting on the garage steps and watching Miles pull items from his destroyed Jeep, "I didn't think he'd give it up so easily."

"Backed into a corner, I think," Miles pulls the registration and insurance from the glove department. He kept it in a small file organizer, "Does insurance cover damages caused by ghosts?"

"I don't know, but probably not."

Miles throws the organizer into his duffle bag. He's collected all of his things so far from the wreck. Information tying him to his Jeep, a pair of winter gloves and a hat, a small handheld camera with a blank sim card. He'd have to go back to his apartment, grab essentials. That was two states away. Miles didn't know when he'd be able to get there.

"I know how to drive," Billy says, "If you ever need me to."

Miles laughs, "That's great. Imagine being the idiot who has to ring up a ghost for twenty gallons at a gas station," he throws the gloves and hat into his duffle bag.

"Not like that, Upshur."

He bends down to pick up the crowbar Frank had let him borrow. He goes to the front of the car. The front bumper was hanging on by the grace of God. Miles wedges the crowbar between the bumper body and the front liscense plate, pulling. The plate comes off with ease with a clatter. Miles rounds to the back, doing the same to the plate on the back bumper. With little effort, it pops off.

"How then?"

"Like this."

Billy turns into a black cloud, darting for Miles. A burst of pain burns through Miles' body, doubling over. He tries to yell, but his teeth snap together.

And everything goes dark.

**Miles covers his ears. The walls shake with yelling from outside his room. He hears things shatter. Miles pulls his blanket tight over him, trying to block out the sound. His arms throb where his father had grabbed him. He hears a loud thud, then nothing. He waits, and waits, and waits. His bedroom door creaks open, soft yellow light peeking through.**

"Upshur? Upshur?"

Miles snaps his eyes open, reflexively lurching forward to grab at Billy. His hands swipe through Billy's form, causing it to open up and close where his finger grabbed. Billy fell back, shying away. Uncontrollable rage overtakes Miles' senses, eyes growing teary, ears ringing.

" _What the fuck was that_?" Miles stands, " _What the fuck did you do to me_?" He could barely hear his own voice, blood pounding.

"I...I only..." Billy stayed low to the ground.

"Don't _ever_ fucking do that to me. _Never_ fucking do that to me again," He bared his teeth.

Billy's expression twisted into pain. His form dissipated, flowing slow back into Miles body. Miles' trembled, shoulders square and fists balled. His arms and legs ache and throb, skin hot, stomach aching. He breathes a shaky breath.

He yells, pulls an arm back, fist connecting with the Jeep. He slides to his knees.

**_"Your mom is going to the hospital. I'll be back in an hour."_ **

**_"What's wrong?"_ **

**_"Nothing, she just fell, the clumsy bitch."_ **

"Miles?" Waylon's voice is quiet. He had opened the garage door, peering in.

"What?" Miles bites, head resting against the melted wheel of the Jeep.

"Are...are you OK?"

"I just need a minute," he closes his eyes.

"Do you need me t - "

" _I just need a minute_ ," he twists his head around, voice raised.

Waylon shrinks back inside.

Miles stays on his knees, focusing on the cold metal of the Jeep. He feels the tenseness of his body loosen, skin going cold. He sighs.

"Billy?"

No answer.

"You there?"

Nothing.

 _Shit_.

He turns himself over, plopping himself on his rear, staring forward at the Miles - shaped scorch mark on the wall.

"I'm sorry, Hope," Miles had bursts of anger as a kid, had outbursts as a teen, and had drunken stupors as an adult. But he never felt such unbridled anger.

"I should have told you instead of showed you," Billy's layered voice shakes, "I should have told you."

"Don't even worry about it, Hope. Just...what did you do? To me? What was that?"

"I took over your body, like I did in the labs. I saved you."

 _Saved_?

"What do you mean?"

He hears a sifting in his head, Billy appearing in front of the scorched wall. His form was thin and tall, opposite Miles. Billy sat cross - legged, hands fists against his knees.

"You freed me, and I can never repay you for that. When the Walrider disappeared, and I took it's place, you got up. You grabbed your camera and stood up. Then the exit doors burst open," his black eyes close. A white tear runs down his cheek.

"Guards, five of them, armed to the teeth in black kevlar...Wernicke at their side. They trained their guns on you. They killed you, Miles. I had no choice."

Miles could feel sweat stain through his jacket, heart in his throat, stomach churning. _They killed you._

"What did you do?"

"I took over your body. I killed them. I killed Wernicke. I didn't realize the pain it caused you, Miles," his mouth worried.

Miles shook his head, "I didn't feel any of it. I'm _dead?_ "

"Yes. I'm so sorry, Miles, I'm so sorry."

Miles touched his chest, remembering the bloodied shirt he woke up in. _Bullet wounds, of course_.

 _"I can't be dead_ ," Miles thinks to himself, staring at Billy, " _He's....this is impossible. I'm not dead. Billy must just think I'm dead because of his condition...I'm not dead. I don't feel dead, I wouldn't be standing if I was dead."_

Staring at Billy's guilty form, Miles realizes that Billy didn't mourn the people he's killed. Billy mourns Miles, and what he did to him. He fells guilty for doing things Miles didn't approve of. It made Miles almost feel sick. Billy did what he thought was appropriate. _He's emotionally and mentally stunted,_ Miles thinks, _he needs someone to help him, not yell at him._

"Can you promise me something, Billy?"

"Anything, Miles, anything."

"Unless we're knee - deep in danger, never do that again, OK? This is a last resort option. If you think we're in danger, you can take over my body, but only then, OK?"

Billy nods in acknowledgment, muttering an "OK," white tears streaked his face.

It shocked Miles to see Billy so hurt, so raw in emotion. If he wasn't intangible, Miles would offer him some sort of comfort. Miles deducts that Billy was probably abused emotionally and physically as a child, not uncommon for abuse victims to regress like that.

"I'm sorry for yelling at you. I couldn't control myself," _I need to keep my anger in check, that could get us into trouble along the way,_ "Are we OK?"

Billy wipes at his eyes, "We're OK, Miles."


	8. Tear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Get in the car

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah...................almost there...........

"Can you give me and Waylon a minute?" Lisa asks Frank. He gives her a strange look, before muttering a "Sure," and walking out to the front porch.

Miles is in the garage, yelling and muttering to himself. He yelled at Waylon, so Waylon sits at the kitchen table, waiting. Next to his flashlight, he has Frank's car keys. Waylon's nervous. He's nervous to leave his house, nervous to see the asylum again, nervous to have to face what happened to him again.

Lisa sits in the chair next to his. She keeps him at half an arm's length, holding Waylon's hand.

"Baby, look at me."

Waylon's skin doesn't crawl at _Baby_ this time. He looks at Lisa, and realizes just how exhausted she looks. Her dark eyes are droopy, dark circles under to match. She gives Waylon a small smile.

"I love you, Waylon," she says.

He wishes he could melt at her words, like he always did. Lisa always had him wrapped around her little finger. She made him do things no other person could ever coax him to. A month ago, Waylon would've died for her. His adoration for her was boundless. But when she speaks those loving words, he can only think of the pain he felt during his imprisonment.

"I love you," he says back, even though the words are empty. He can't feel anything. His heart doesn't flutter like it would. Her image is tainted in his mind.

She rubs her thumb over the back of his hand.

"Are you OK?"

 _No, I'm not_. He nods his head, "I'm fine." _Don't cry, don't cry don't cry._

"You don't have to go with him. You can stay here, I could go if you wanted - "

"No," he doesn't mean to say it so loud, "I...I have to go. This is my fault, Lisa, I have to see this through."

He couldn't let Lisa walk into the maw of the beast. They'd do more than just kill her. Waylon couldn't let that happen.

He plays with Frank's keys in his free hand. _Frank._

"Why is Frank here?" He had completely forgotten to ask her. They'd met in college, at an on - campus party. Frank had actually introduced Lisa to him. Then they all graduated, and eventually drifted apart, but they always kept in touch. Frank had called, they texted, e - mailed, they kept in frequent contact, but the last time they physically saw Frank was four years ago, before he moved out to California to be with family.

Lisa's grin tightened, just a bit, just enough for Waylon to notice.

"He called, said he took a few weeks off for vacation. You were already gone, so I told him it was alright for him to come down. It's been a while since the boys have seen him. It was..." she laughs nervously, "It was supposed to be a surprise."

He gives her a weak smile, "Surprise."

She let's go of his hand, brushing her hair back out of her face with a laugh. She stares at him, brows creasing.

"You sure you're alright to do this? Your leg looked pretty bad."

Waylon thinks of telling Lisa about Miles, about what Miles carries inside of him.

"I'll be fine. Miles knows what he's doing," If he told Lisa, it would be a betrayal of Miles' trust.

"He knows more than I would've guessed. He's definitely passionate," she crosses her arms, " _Dangerously_ passionate."

"He wouldn't hurt me," Waylon says, and he believes it. Miles has had plenty of chances to hurt them, kill them, but he hasn't. Not only that, he's helped Waylon. Fixed his leg, healed the scars on his face, told him he wasn't crazy. He's done more for Waylon than anyone else had in his entire life. He has no doubts about Miles.

Lisa stares at the table.

"I just wish the boys were here to say goodbye."

Waylon's hands tighten. He loves his boys, has loved them since Lisa first told him she was pregnant. He's done everything for them, did his best as a father to provide.

"We aren't leaving for a long time, just for the day...hopefully."

"Don't worry about it," Lisa says, "We'll tell them you had to go back to work. Frank will take them out for pizza later."

Waylon shakes his head, "They're too smart to believe that, especially Ricky."

"Oh, don't get me started on him, he'll notice you're missing, and I'll never hear the end of it."

"He'll...." Waylon laughs, "He'll make up so big conspiracy about me being abducted by aliens or something."

Lisa grins, and it warms Waylon's chest. She shakes her head.

"I'll think of something to tell the boys. I don't know if they'll understand all....all _this_ ," and she gestures to the entire room, "But they'll understand that it's important."

Ricky and Ben were both sharp, sweet boys. They always listened, but never took things at face value. They'd fill in the blanks on their own. That frightened Waylon.

The garage door opens, and Miles steps through, duffle bag in hand. He plops it on the table. In his hands are two dented license plates, and a small black organizer. He passes through the kitchen without a word.

"Is he OK?" Lisa asks.

"I don't know."

When Miles comes back upstairs, he brings up his mug and plate he left from that morning, bringing them to the sink.

Lisa stands, "I can do those - "

"I got it," Miles' response is tight.

Lisa looks at Waylon. Waylon shrugs. She sits back down.

When Miles is done with his dishes, he goes and digs through his duffle bag. Waylon watches him quickly remove items from the duffle, placing them on the table, before taking the bag and going back into the basement. Waylon see's a pocket knife, a smartphone with a thick black case, a worn leather wallet, and a small silver photo camera.

Miles stands in the open space between the living room and the kitchen, "Are you all set, Park? I'd prefer to be there before dark."

"Yeah, yeah - " he grabs his the flashlight. Miles approaches the table, pocketing his items.

"Oh, wait, hold on," Miles runs back into the garage, emerging a few seconds later with Frank's crowbar in his hand, "Can't forget the lockpick."

Waylon smiles. He stands up, Lisa standing with him. He goes to grab the keys, but Miles snatches them before his hand reaches the table.

"I'm driving," he says, quickly exiting out the front door.

Lisa shares a nervous look with Waylon. He shrugs.

"I still don't want you to go."

"I don't have a choice."

"Park!" Miles yells, standing in the open doorway, "You coming?"

Before Waylon can reply, Lisa wraps her arms around his shoulders, pulling him in for a long kiss. It's soft, but full of passion. Waylon can only offer a muffled yelp. Her warm body becomes a furnace, burning Waylon through his skin into his bones. He doesn't want to feel this white hot repulsion, his mind ripping away the love and kindness in the kiss and pushing forward ugly images of tragedy and hate. He tries not imagine them, together, ripped apart and bloodied, torn open -

Miles coughs.

Lisa let's go, and Waylon sucks in a breath, terrified.

"I love you, be safe."

She let's go.

Waylon rubs at his wrists, feeling the memories of ropes that rubbed his skin raw.

He walks out.

He hears Miles' voice, far away, "I'll bring him back in one piece, don't worry."

Frank is outside, leaning against the bannister, concentrated on his phone. He hears Waylon come outside and pockets it.

"I don't trust that guy, Waylon," he strides into Waylon's personal space, "I've been reading some of his articles online, doing my own research. He's got a temper, he's a drunk," he keeps his voice low, closing the door behind Waylon. Waylon holds his arms tight against his chest. _Back up, back up._

"He's got a background, too. Misdemeanors, but he's trouble. He's a loose canon. I don't think it's a good idea to go - "

The door opened, and Miles tried to step outside, but ended up bumping into Waylon's back. He's blocked from both sides. _Back up back up backupbackupback -_

"Move," Miles says, cold. Frank grabs Waylon by his shoulders, moving him to the left. Miles brushes past.

Waylon tries to shrug out of Frank's grip but he holds him tight by his jacket.

"He's dangerous," he's holding Waylon too tight, fingers cutting through the fabric, "It'd be suicide to go with him - "

" _Let go of me_ ," Waylon squeaks. He shoulders sting, he feels blood seep through. It hurts too much. He knows what he's getting into, he _knows_! Why does nobody trust his judgement? Why does everyone think they can _control_ him?

"What? Waylon - "

"Get _off_ \- " he tries to squirm out, feeling Frank's fingers cut through his skin. He can't take the pain. _Stop_.

"Listen to me - "

" _Stop_."

Waylon feels his body pulled forward by his sleeves as Frank pulls away. As Frank is _pulled_ away.

Miles throws Frank against the banister. Miles steps between Waylon and Frank. shoulders squared. Frank is yelling. Static fills Waylon's head, pushing his yells out of his mind. He feels invisible flecks brush his cheeks, and he wipes them off with his sleeve.

Waylon meets Frank's gaze. His eyes are filled with anger, fiery and sharp. He enters Miles' personal space, finger pointed. He's yelling some nonsense Waylon can't understand. Frank is a clear three inches taller than Miles, chest broader, but that doesn't stop Miles from grabbing Frank by the shirt, pulling him down to his level. Waylon knows Miles had muttered something, as Frank's eyes got wide, angry expression dropping. His eyes darted to Waylon, and Waylon saw a look of pure guilt cross his face. Miles held Frank for another few seconds, before letting him go. He kept Frank at an arm's length.

"Park," Waylon can hear Miles' voice, clear as day, "Get in the car."

The static stops.

 

  
-

 

  
Miles has dealt with bullies his whole life, and he's never let them push him around. He can't stand people who try to threaten and push others around to get their own way. He's gotten into more trouble in school for standing up to people than he did for anything else. He dealt with them all, from snotty rich kids to backwoods jerks. He wasn't about to let some douche push around anybody, especially when that anybody was a man who's been traumatized beyond belief.

He didn't like how Frank grabbed Waylon. He didn't like how Frank got in Waylon's face, had him pushed against the house. It reminded him of when he was a kid, watching his mom get beat up by her drunk boyfriends. He was too small, too weak to ever stop them.

 _"Get off_ \- "

"Stop him, Miles."

Before Miles realizes, he's run up the porch steps, grabbed Frank by the back collar of his shirt, and tossed him into the banister. He reflexively put himself between Waylon and Frank. Frank yelled at him, calling him every name under the sun, spit flying in his face. Miles grabbed the front collar of Frank's shirt, pulling him down.

 _"You want me to tell him about you and his wife, asshole_?" Blackmail wasn't a card Miles usually played. But when he needed it, he used it.

Miles felt Frank tense. _Gotcha_.

" _Relax, alright? Relax_ ," he doesn't want to hurt Frank, he needs to stay on this family's good side (he is borrowing Frank's car after all,) "You're making a scene."

Frank doesn't reply. He let's Frank go.

"Park," he says, voice loud, "Get in the car."

He stares Frank down, not speaking until Waylon had sheepishly trudged down the steps and entered the passenger seat of Frank's black BMW.

" _How do you know that_ \- " Frank begins, but Miles holds a hand up. He feels his insides blaze, Billy shifting inside his body.

"I know because you guys aren't as fucking secretive as you think. You think that's _right_? Waylon doesn't deserve that."

"You can't tell him, not yet...not until this is all over."

"Oh when it's all over? And when will that fucking be?" Miles shoves his hands into his pockets, " _Tomorrow_? _Next week?_ What if this never blows over, did you think of that?" he shakes his head, "You're so fucking _selfish_."

Frank's face twists, "Oh, what, you're a fucking paragon of the people now?"

"I'm no fucking angel, dickhead, but at least I'm not stepping in on a guy's wife."

"You don't know anything about me."

"I know a guy who never matured past college frat parties when I see one," Miles runs his tongue over his teeth, trying to keep his voice low.

"When we get back, you're gonna tell him what's happening. _You_ tell him, or _I_ will."

Frank doesn't respond, angrily blowing air out of his nose.

"We'll be back later tonight, probably. Talk to Lisa about it, decide what you're gonna say." he gives Frank a hard pat on the arm.

"Thanks for the keys."

He strides towards the car.

"I thought we weren't going to say anything," Billy says as Miles climbs into the drivers seat, slamming the door.

"Change of plans," Miles mutters, shoving the keys into the ignition, turning, hearing the car purr to life. He looks at Waylon from the corner of his eyes.

Waylon stares straight at his house, fixed on the porch, as Miles pulls out of the driveway, following the long stretch of dirt road flanked by trees and fields.

 

 


	9. Car Trip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the car

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this went through like three different revisions bleh....finally got it to a good place
> 
> Some sketches of the dudes and lots of billy concepts!!! http://5un5yst.tumblr.com/post/182431577508/wow-okoutlast-is-a-pencial-sketch-only-thing-now

Miles locks the car doors.

 _"I'm sorry, Frank, I'm sorry_ ," Waylon thinks, staring at Frank's tense form standing on the porch.

As they pulled away, he saw Frank rush into the house. Whatever Miles had said had struck the fear of God into him. Waylon gripped his seatbelt, teeth clenched. Waylon had thought Frank would hurt him, _did_ hurt him. He reaches into his shirt, feeling the bare skin of his shoulders. There's no cuts from where Frank had grabbed him. Why did it hurt him so much to be touched? He hadn't wanted to push Frank away, but he was so close, so in his face, cuttingly cruel. It made Waylon curl into his seat. Waylon chalked Frank's behavior to the stress of the situation. Waylon would apologize when they got back. Miles locks the doors of the car.

Then there was Miles, who saw Frank grab him. He grabbed Frank, scared him... _protected_ Waylon. Miles locks the car doors.

"What did you say to him?" Waylon can barely raise his voice. Miles locks the car doors.

"Don't worry about it," Miles says coldly. He locks the car doors.

"It's already _locked_ ," Waylon blurts out, stress overcoming him. He wants to be taken seriously, he wants to go home. But he's already out of the neighborhood, the local shops passing by quickly. _It's too late_.

"I'm just making sure," Miles says, voice flat, "Noise bother you?"

Waylon's cheeks are red, " _No_! What _was_ that? What did you say to him?"

"Park, don't worry about it," he waves his hands, "We'll talk about it when we get back."

Waylon doesn't respond, staring out the passenger window.

After an hour of driving time, Waylon's thoughts wander. They'd reach the mountains in three more hours if they didn't stop. He had to say _something_ to fill the silence. He wants to bring up what happened on the porch. Afraid of agitating Miles, he forces his brain to change the subject.

"Where do you live, Miles? Out here, in Colorado?" Waylon was never good at small talk, but he realizes there's much he doesn't know about Miles.

Miles sighs, "Nevada, close to the border that crosses into California."

"Pretty long way to be from home."

"I've traveled farther for a story."

They passed a small strip mall. Waylon counted five establishments.

"You always lived in Colorado?" Miles asked. Waylon turned his head, saw how tightly Miles was gripping the steering wheel.

"No, no...we came from Arizona."

Miles cracked a smile. "Liking the cold?"

"So far, yeah...not really dressed for it, though," he smiles back.

Waylon switches the radio on. Static only rolls through. A sound catches his attention.

~~_ ".....Never.....cold....." _ ~~

Multiple voices, soft with different pitches come through.

"Weird," Waylon says, "Did you hear that?"

"No."

"Listen," Waylon cranks the volume of the radio, static droning out the sound of the car. He pauses, leaning an ear.

" ~~ _....cold...in...labs...._~~ "

"See? You heard that? 'Cold, in, labs,'" he looks up.

Miles is staring straight, knuckles light.

Waylon's face falls.

"Is that....is that him? The Swarm?"

" ~~ _....Name......Billy......Everyone......Me..._~~ "

Miles breathes through his nose, face stoic.

"Well? Is it him? William Hope?" Waylon twists in his seat. He is still perplexed by the situation of Miles carrying the Walrider within him.

~~ _"I'm...and...dang...."_ ~~

"It's him," Miles sighs, "Yeah, yeah, it's him. Call him Billy. That's what he tells me to call him."

Waylon feels like he should be scared. A ghost is speaking through a radio, something that murdered and ripped apart without much thought back at the asylum. But Miles seems perfectly calm, and that makes Waylon a fraction less nervous.

"Billy...." Waylon muses. The nickname makes Hope sound almost friendly.

" ~~ _....Park....._~~ "

Waylon smiles. Miles chuckles.

"That's incredible.....A regular ghost in the machine. I didn't think it - he, could do that," Waylon's smile grows wider, but quickly falls. _Relax, Park, relax relax._

"What, uh...what's he like?"

Miles shrugs, "He's a nice kid."

 ~~ _".....I'm....handsome...._~~ "

"And he's real handsome," Miles slouches, leaning back into his seat.

"But you can hear him clearly?" Waylon presses his hands on the dashboard.

"See him sometimes, too. It's like....talking to another physical person."

"Does he always communicate through the radio?"

"No, I didn't know he could do that. Didn't know anything about him until a two days ago."

Waylon takes pause. He's completely forgotten their trip to the mountains. He sits back straight in his seat.

" ~~ _Be...._~~ "

"Don't be nervous, Park. He doesn't want to hurt anybody. I think he wants the same thing we want."

"To stop Murkoff."

"Yeah. Pretty good ally to have on our side, huh?"

_Allies. How many people would offer their help to us?_

"Miles?" Waylon asks.

"Yeah?" Miles turns the volume of the radio down.

"What happens when we find all that evidence?"

"We compile it, organize it, and post it." _Post it._

"And everyone will see what happened there?" Waylon tries to fight the shake in his voice. He stares at Miles' hands, counting his fingers.

"Yeah." Miles sighs, pulling up to a red stoplight. He puts his hands between his legs, throwing off Waylon's focus, "I'm sorry, Park, but we can't leave anything out. They'll see my footage, and they'll see yours."

Waylon curls up in his seat.

"But it'll be for the best. What's the two of us compared to the thousands of people affected by them?"

Waylon is almost shocked. Under the hard exterior, the impulsiveness, Waylon can see an almost righteous side to Miles. Waylon had never thought of the effect his video evidence might have on people. It would expose what happened to him, what happened to the people there, but for the better. It would be a mortifying, disgusting experience, but people would learn, and someone would step in and stop Murkoff. There wouldn't be another Waylon Park, or another Miles Upshur. They would stop them. Together. It sounded so easy.

" ~~ _You'd....go....run..._~~ "

Waylon furrows his brow. _You'd, go, run?_

"What'd he say?"

The light turns green, and Miles presses on the gas.

"We might...we might have to go on the run," Miles says, defeated.

" _What_?"

"Not you, Park, but me and...him. You saw what he did at Mount Massive....what he did to you. They'd do anything to get something that powerful back. We're gonna find our shit, post it, and I'm gonna disappear."

Waylon pulls his legs up to his chest, staring out his window, counting the dividers.

"That's not fair...you shouldn't have to go on the run."

"I don't have a choice. Unless you want to hide me in your basement for the rest of my life. Your wife probably wouldn't like that too much," Miles says with a smirk.

"Do you have any family?" Waylon asks. He's counted twenty dividers so far.

"No." Miles responds.

~~ _".....about...fa - "_ ~~

Miles shuts the radio off.

Waylon blushes, embarrassed, "I'm sorry, I shouldn - "

"Just - " Miles takes a sharp breath through his nose, "It's fine. I don't have any family. No one will miss me."

Waylon doesn't believe that, but the tension that rolls off of him keeps any questions Waylon had to himself.

Waylon trains his attention outside the passenger window, counting the dividers until his eyelids grew heavy, and he slipped into a sleep.

  
-

  
_**Waylon tugs at the restrains around his wrists and ankles, his head strapped to the chair, keeping him facing forward. He could feel the sharp tips of knives run over his chest and thighs, cutting deep, sloughing off the meat of his body, scraping against his bones. In front of him were four blank white screens. He hears a whirr, and a click, and images flash. Ink blots, number sequences, codes and grainy images pop in and out of his view, burn through his eyes, into his mind.** _

_**"Don't fight it, don't fight it, don't fight it,"** _

_**Invisible hands wrap around his throat, squeezing.** _

_**Waylon could feel himself slip, eyes closing. Brain pulsing, grey matter melting in his head and out of his eyes, leaking down his face and onto his shirt in hot, horrific streaks.** _

_**A force pushes him from the left, knocking the chair over.** _

Waylon awakes with a start.

"Whoah, Park, easy, I didn't mean to scare you."

Waylon sits up in his seat, rubbing at his eyes. His eyes pulse, and he rubs his fingertips over his brows.

"We're almost there. You fell asleep on me, Park."

"Sorry."

"Sounded like it was a pretty bad dream."

"That's all I've been having lately." Waylon touches his forehead, feeling a light layer of sweat. He wipes it off with his sleeve.

Miles pulls off of the main highway, crossing over a dirt bank, pavement during to gravel. He drives up until the gravel turns to dirt, and the trees dense, blocking the blue of the sky. Sunbeams light random patches of land. Waylon counts nineteen of them. After another twenty minutes of silence the forest thins out, rock and dirt overtake the environment. Waylon counts the cragged formations, fifteen large ones, seventeen small.

" _Jesus_ \- " Waylon hears Miles breathe.

Waylon turns his head. Miles pulls up to a chain fence, pressing on the brakes. The same fence Waylon drove through a month ago on his way to work. The fence was different from the last time Waylon had seen it. Instead of standing straight, the gate was flung off it's hinges, metal poles bent, wires tying into the brush that flanked it.

"What the Hell happened here?" Miles stopped the car.

"I don't - I don't know, it wasn't like this when I left," confused, Waylon sits up in his seat.

"How far until the asylum from here? Couple minutes?" Miles puts the car in park, light falling through the trees, illuminating Miles' olive skin.

"It's right up the path," Waylon confirms, "Something isn't right here, Miles."

"No shit. I can feel it in the air, for shit's sake," Miles stares through the gate, dark dull eyes searching. Something catches his attention, eyes following an invisible marker.

"Wait here," Miles says, unbuckling himself and opening the car door.

"What? No, you shouldn't - " Waylon's mind runs wild with possibilities of this trip going wrong.

"I've got this, Park. Don't worry," he slams the car door shut, leaning down to look into the driver's window. He motions to the car door lock. Waylon leans over, using one index finger to lock the car.

"Be back soon," Miles' voice is muffled by the glass.

Waylon contemplates opening the car door to join him, but decides against it. If Miles wanted him out of the car, he'd tell him to get out of the car. He wrings his hands, counting Miles' steps as he walks away. He reaches thirty before Miles disappears into the green.

Alone with his thoughts, Waylon has never felt more in danger. How long has Miles' been gone? Minutes? Hours? _Days_? Waylon can feel the sky darken, light disappearing, trees no longer a peaceful green but a menacing black, casting shadows, twisting and knotting to block out the moon and the stars. Vines appear at the gate, grey and sickly, crawling up the metal and the brush. They twine and tie, thorns scraping together. They crawl along the path, meeting the gate, knotting and twisting between the space.

A _crack_ to his right. Waylon spins to see vines twisting and thrashing against the surrounding trees, grey encasing black. The vines collected between the spaces between tress, tying them together as sickly umbilical - cords. Waylon pulls his sleeves up, scratching at his arms.

 

-

  
Miles stands in the middle of the road, trees knocked over, dirt loose and flung haphazardly. Whatever rolled through, it widened the path, running over brush and rocks to clear the way. He looks up to see a black cloud climb through the trees. It twists among the leaves, settling on a low - hanging branch, Billy materializing.

"It's clear up ahead, Upshur. Safe to park the car closer," Billy rests his hands on his knees, "What do you think did this, Upshur?"

Miles kicks at a fallen tree, "Who knows. Did you see anything odd up there?"

"Black vans. Big ones. They were empty. Not a soul outside," Billy pulls his legs up to his chest. Miles looks away with a shake of his head as he see's Billy's privates hang flaccid.

"Do you _have_ to be naked?" he says, picking through the fallen branches.

"It's how I was when they placed me in the engine. I can't change," he curls a finger in a greasy lock.

"Sucks to be stuck like that," Miles says, looking up and lifting a hand to block the lower half of Billy's body from his view.

"You never shied at the male form before," Billy cocks his head, "You like men."

"That's different," Miles picks up a long, thick branch. It was four inches in diameter, Miles gauging it as around five feet tall, "We aren't lovers. And I don't like you picking through my private life in my head like that."

Miles thinks of the asylum. The emaciated bodies of men, torn apart, exposed in sick displays of torment and despair. The living ones were violated, covered in grime and God - only - knows. He doesn't think he could look at the body of a self - identified man ever again.

He looks up into the tree. Billy has closed his legs, knees together on the branch, head still cocked, lost in thought.

Miles plants the branch into the dirt, pressing some weight onto it. The branch snaps in half.

" _Shit_ ," Miles didn't think he put much weight onto it, certainly not enough to make it snap in half. But the branch wasn't meant to support his weight, it was for Waylon and his bad leg. He digs through the forest floor until he finds a branch of similar size and length as the one he broke, shaking dirt from it and peeling off lifting bark.

"C'mon, let's get back to the car."

The walk back is silent, nothing but the sifting of Billy and the rustle of the leaves and dirt as he walked.

When he gets back, Waylon is curled up in the passenger seat, eyes closed. Miles thinks him sleeping, until he notices the movement of his arms and the muttering of his lips. He taps the branch of the passenger window, jolting Waylon in his seat, his eyes going wide as he rushes to fix his sleeves.

"You alright, Park?" he yells through the glass. Waylon stares for a few quiet seconds, before nodding his head. Miles motions to unlock the car, which Waylon does.

"He doesn't look alright," Billy muses as Miles opens the back doors of the BMW, throwing the branch inside.

Miles rounds around the front of the car, entering back into the driver's sear.

"It's clear up ahead," Miles puts the car into drive.

"What's the stick for?" Waylon asks, hands clasped together.

"For you," Miles responds, driving forward, "Can't have you limpin' around without anything to support yourself...on the plus side, it's a good weapon."

Waylon stares with wide eyes, silent.

"Just in case, alright? I'm not expecting you to pull some Ju - Jitsu shit in there, just to defend yourself," he pulls up the path, the menacing visage of the asylum clearly in view. It was just as shitty during the day as it was at night.

"It's been so long since I've seen the outside," Billy says quietly from the back of his mind, "You would never know the things happening below."

Miles pulled up past the front gates, in front of the same security booth he pulled up to a few years ago. The once closed security gate was broken. Miles saw armored cars in the courtyard, a silver emblem on the sides glinting in the light. Miles puts the BMW in park, shutting the engine off.

"Well. Here we are," Miles checks his pockets, making sure he has his camera and pocket knife and wallet. He looks over to see Waylon brandishing a heavy - looking black flashlight, "You're OK with this, Park?"

Waylon unbuckles his seatbelt, "I'm not OK. I'm not. But I have to do this. For what I did to you."

Miles is taken aback. Did Waylon really blame himself for what Murkoff did?

"What? Park, you didn't do _anything_ to me. You didn't bring me to this fucking place. I made that decision on my own," he motions with his hands, accentuating his sentence.

Waylon doesn't respond. Miles sighs.

"Park, you can blame yourself later. Right now, I need you thinking with a clear head. Can you do that? If you can't, I'm leaving you in the car," he means the last part as a joke, but the tensions of the situation make his words heavy and serious.

Waylon nods, "I can do that."

The both exit the car.


	10. Enter the Maw

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Step inside

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is kinda short, but I already started 11 so that should come soon! because of the dual - protagonism, I make the chapters short so they are easier to understand and follow without being overwhelming

Waylon holds to flashlight achingly tight as he stares at the asylum. He never thought he would have to come back here. But they need his files, and they need Miles' video. He hears Miles open the car door, and turning around Waylon watches him pull out the branch he threw in and the crowbar he borrowed from Frank. He holds onto the crowbar, holding out the branch.

"Here," he says. Waylon tucks the flashlight into his jacket pocket, gently taking the branch from Miles' grasp. It's heavy and comes up to the bottom of Waylon's chest. He leans his weight against it, and it holds.

"Thank you," Waylon closes his car door.

"Don't worry about it. Just stay behind me, alright?" Miles didn't leave Waylon any room to argue, as he walked quickly towards the armored cars. There's four of them, scattered along the courtyard.

"Now we know why the fence was damaged," Waylon quips, trying to keep up. As he gets closer, he see's the silver symbols from the armored cars clearly now. The symbol was of a laser cut of an eagle, a salmon in it's claw, wingspan spread. On the top was the word BLACKJAW, and under the eagle and the salmon was EST. 1975. He watched Miles pull the handles of the vans.

"Locked, damn," he puts his hands up and leans his forehead against the glass window of the car door, "Can't see shit, either."

"You ever hear of Blackjaw?" Waylon asks, "I've never heard of them."

"Not the name, but the symbol I recognize. First time I saw it, I was writing this article on Murkoff destroying civilian homes out in Iraq, and some of the photos I recovered from passing drones had that symbol of the eagle and the fish. I could never make out the words, but I've seen them countless times after. They must be some private security sect, or maybe a mercenary band on Murkoff payroll." He lifts the crowbar, but pauses, "Shit, can't break the glass, alarm will set off."

Waylon wracks his brain, "I remember that article, they were doing it because the army was going to...er," he tried to shake the memory loose.

"Wanted to root out terrorists - a crock of shit, by the way," Miles passes from car to car, checking the locks and peering through the windows. Waylon watches, eyes nervously darting to the asylum, then back to Miles.

"All locked, _fuck_ ," Miles tucks the crowbar under his arm, holding the small silver handheld camera Waylon recognized from the house. The camera turned on with a small _chirp_. Miles raised the camera to his face, and Waylon heard the shutter close and _click_.

Waylon leaned against the hood of one of the armored vans, watching Miles photograph the scene, crossing from van to van. He admires the thoroughness Miles' has. Miles pauses, searching his pockets, and Waylon hears him swear.

"Park, you got a notepad on you?"

Waylon shakes his head,

"Shit, I should be taking notes - fuck. Ah well, at least we have the photos, we'll document all this later when we get back to the house."

Miles can make any situation sound so....so _normal_. Especially a turn of events like this. Maybe that's his way of coping, to revert to work, treat this like work instead of a tragedy in his life? Waylon can only wish he had that ability. Every time he thinks of typing away at a work station, he's taken back to that makeshift desk in a shadowy corner of the server room, typing out his e - mail - what he thought was his last contact with the outside world.

Miles takes one last glance around, "Nothing else here to investigate, let's get inside and retrace our steps," he motions for Waylon to follow, climbing up the front steps of the asylum.

Taking in a sharp, deep breath, Waylon follows.

Waylon walks up the front steps, stopping before the front doors. Picking his head up, he sees two white eyes peering through the shadow of the inside. Heart jumping into his throat, he rubs his eyes with his sleeve. When he looks again, Miles is staring at him, eyebrows knit, standing in the doorway.

"You alright, Park?" he asks.

Waylon nods his head, wordlessly moving to push past Miles. Miles catches him in the chest, palm flat. He's unbelievably warm, and expels the chill of the outside.

"Nothing's gonna hurt you here, Park." Miles sounds so sure, and that pushes aside the fear and pain for enough time for Waylon to enter the building.

Stepping inside, Waylon's eyes adjust to the dim lighting, and the sickening scent of decay hits him. He gags, covering his nose and mouth. The entrance is still covered in blood, dead bodies scattered, furniture in dissarray. He looks down at the entrance, shattered glass still laying in a puddle of gore that Waylon knows is Blair. _Blair's dead,_ his mind says, _deader than dead. What's so hard to understand about that?_

Miles is already snapping photographs.

"I lost my camera in the basement - down in the labs. Do you want to go there first? Didn't face anything that isn't already taken care of."

"Lead the way," Waylon mutters, "Whatever you want to do first," his skin crawls, head pulsing. The air of the room is oppressive and churns Waylon's stomach. He remembers walking through here, getting checked in. He saw those same men decaying alive and well a month ago.

Miles looks up to the walkways above, and points to the right, "See that?"

When Waylon looks, there's a large break in the glass window.

"Walker threw me from there...that was maybe in my first thirty minutes here. Broke a rib," he snaps a photo of the window, then the glass below. He kneels down, using the crowbar to rifle through the glass, "Had to pick a lot of this shit out of me, you can still see the blood."

"Your ribs are broken?" Waylon stands next to Miles, placing a well - meaning hand on his shoulder. He feels Miles tense, and lifts his hand quickly, stepping back.

"Sorry - "

"They aren't broken," Miles says, standing, "Not anymore, anyway....hold on."

He looks off to the side, at the bottom of the stairs next to the elevator. Waylon leans against his branch with both hands. Miles approaches the stairs, back to Waylon, hiding his face.

".....what do you mean?"

Silence responds.

"Hm, no, you're right. That's safer than bringing him around, who knows who else is roaming around."

" _Walrider_ ," Waylon thinks. He limps to the front desk, leaning against the top, fascinated by the one - sided conversation.

"Why not?" Miles has his hands in his pockets, crowbar tucked safely under his arm, like this was a casual happening that he was used to.

Another long pause.

"So...they're evil now?" Curiously, Miles leans against the cage of the elevator.

Waylon is engrossed, entranced, and disturbed all at once. Miles is an enigma. Angry one moment, perfectly calm the next, who asks the hardest questions, who is open but closed off all at once. He survived the worst this place had to offer, and came out just as fine as he did when he came in. He's not sad, and pitiful, and _broken_ , like Waylon is. Isn't hindered by a crippled leg and terrible visions that walk the thin line of what is and isn't real.

"You can't help them because they killed people?"

Waylon's mind reaches back to his childhood, when he engrossed himself in comics and cartoons and played Dungeons and Dragons on the weekends with his friends. He thought that evil asylums and ghosts were things in movies, something written out on a page. Not something physical, not something he could watch unfold in front of his eyes.

Waylon sees Miles nods his head.

"You go, then. We'll wait here."

Waylon purses his lips as Miles walks to him. Miles leans against the desk, arms crossed.

"Billy's gonna take a look around for us. Might take some time, but he'll tell us where to go and where to avoid."

Waylon nods, "Ghost recon. OK, OK OK OK," his voice trails off. Curiosity getting the better of him, he leans in, "What does he look like?" He's never been inside the center chamber of the labs, he's only seen Hope from a distance, usually marred by equipment and lab workers.

"Billy? He's young, in his twenties. About 5'11...." he twists his body around, leaning over to fumble around behind the desk. He comes up with a pen and a yellow notepad. The pen fits awkwardly in his right hand. He scribbles for a few seconds, and Waylon watches a semi - detailed portrait appear. Miles pushes the notepad towards Waylon.

Miles draws Hope young, with long hair and thin lips curved into an almost mischievous smile, large nose in the middle of his face. Miles drew the outline of his eyes, and instead of adding pupils, he adds curved lines inside, giving Hope a hollow gaze.

Waylon runs a finger over the portrait. It was drawn quickly, but Waylon notices the attention to detail Miles has.

"Nice kid. He's, uh...." Miles coughs, "Naked. All the time."

Waylon laughs, looking up, "No way," Waylon's nerves settle.

"Yeah, yeah, no, he's just...he's just _always_ naked. He can't change," Miles shrugs and wipes his nose and chin.

"Is it...is it weird?" Waylon feels a blush creep up on his neck.

"Not really, but y'know, sometimes I'll look up and he's like standing over me and his dick is like....like _right_ there. That's when it gets weird. Otherwise, it's totally normal," Miles moves his hands, punctuating every other word, "I don't think he feels shame."

Waylon is bewildered by the normal tone of Miles' voice, as if they were discussing a living person. For a moment, it didn't feel like they were discussing the visage of a dead man over rotting bodies, didn't feel like they were inside the oppressive looming walls and rooms of the asylum. It felt like two normal men speaking of a friend, in a normal building, under normal circumstances.

Looking into Miles' face, clean and smiling, Waylon is almost lost in this fantasy. Miles has neat teeth, a few weeks worth of unkept hair on his chin, black hair short. Everything about him was of a normal man, besides the dullness of his eyes and pallor of his olive skin.

Miles' eyes meet his, and Waylon quickly looks down, at the portrait of Billy Hope.

 

-

 

"Billy's been gone for a while," Miles muses out loud. He doesn't have his phone, but there's a wall clock on the far left. He's counted Billy as being gone for almost 20 minutes. In that time, Miles had pulled out a rolling desk chair from behind the front desks for Waylon to sit in, using small talk to fill the silence.

He's found Waylon, when not lost in his trauma and having a panic attack, is intelligent, inquisitive, and downright kind. Miles notices a clockwork mind inside Waylon, gears whirring with worry and possibility about...about _everything_ , as Miles sees it. Miles has met plenty of men who've faced trauma, usually they close up and shut down after traumatic events, but Miles finds Waylon open and honest. Towards Miles, at least. Why, Miles guesses it's because of the guilt Waylon carries towards him.

"Do you think he's alright?" Waylon asks, pursing his lips, "Think he got lost?"

Miles laughs, "Shit, the last thing I need is to run into some asshole with a vacuum and find him sucked up in it," he looks down at his hands, flexing his hands. He can still feel the faint ghosts of his missing fingers, can feel them curl.

"Sick fucker," Miles mutters, noticing the symbolism of his missing fingers. He's lost the index finger on his dominant hand, the one he used for typing and writing and picking his nose. Then he lost his left ring finger, the finger that's universally attributed to love and marriage. It's a sick, satiric joke. He shoves his hands into his pockets.

He looks over at Waylon, seeing the man study the notepad Miles had drawn Billy's photo on. Miles didn't think he was as talented as many other artists - he knew enough on anatomy to draw a portrait semi - realistically - but he always found it in handy when he was talking to witnesses describing perpetrators. It also came in handy when he was dealing with children. He's found that many children express themselves through drawings and art, and this common ground makes them easy to speak to. Waylon is transfixed on the portrait, running his fingers over the pen lines. It's a quiet compliment Miles tucks away and smiles about.

"Should we go looking for him?" Waylon's eyes don't leave the paper.

"No, we should wait. It's smarter."

Waylon nods.

"Can I see that?" Miles says, holding his hand out. Waylon hands him the notepad.

Miles carefully removes the portrait of Billy, handing the picture back to Waylon. Waylon takes one last long look, before folding the art and carefully putting it into his pocket. Miles tries not to act so touched by the thoughtful way Waylon handles the paper.

Miles takes the pen, jotting down messy notes.

He mentions the vans out front, fitted with the Blackjaw symbol, as well as the empty, sickening feeling he felt walking into the building. He doesn't mention Waylon.

It would, Miles decides, be easier to disappear and leave Waylon and his family alone if he left him out of his notes. When they find his personal letters and go over the footage, Miles decides he'll have to censor Waylon's face and name. But would that give Waylon the justice he deserved? An anonymous source, faceless? Miles never had trouble adding anonymous witness testimonies to his articles before. If anything, Miles felt that an anonymousness gave victims and witnesses power against the things, people, and events that they spoke out against. Why did this feel so different?

" _I'll figure that out when we get back_ ," he thinks to himself, " _Too much to worry about right now_."

He and Waylon sit in silence for another few minutes, before Miles hears a sifting of smoke, and looks up to see Billy standing under the window Miles was thrown out of. His face is in a peaceful smile, hands clasped together, covering his groin.

"No one in the labs down...some parts are clear, but I don't know where Waylon lost his letters, so I can't guide you properly until he let's us know."

Standing straight, Miles nods, "That's great, Billy. Thank you. Park?"

Waylon looks up.

"Billy says he can maneuver us around, but I need you to tell us where you lost your files."

Waylon's body tenses, hands clenching around the branch, "I can do that," he says, unconvincingly. He stands, using the branch to support himself up.

"We have to go up," Waylon says, his voice quiet, "I think I remember the way."

Miles nods, "Billy will be ahead of you," he looks back at Billy, "Right?"

"Of course," he bobs his head up and down, hands moving to clasp behind his back, rocking on his heels. It reminds Miles of a patient schoolchild, furthering the desire to protect him from Murkoff. They took a young man and twisted him. Miles can only image the damage to his brain that Murkoff had caused.

"Billy will lead the way, just tell him to scout ahead. He'll hear you," Miles softly pats Waylon's shoulder in reassurance, "Nothing's gonna get you here, alright? Whatever you faced here - that's over. That can't hurt you anymore," he gives Waylon a friendly shake.

"I'll make sure of it," Miles grabs the notepad.

Waylon looks at him, and Miles swears he see's a blush creep up the man's neck. Waylon quickly brushes past Miles, going towards the stairs.

Billy dissipates, cloud moving quickly past Waylon to rest at the top of the stairs, head cocked and smiling, "Wailing, wailing, no more of it," he says, voices whimsical. He disappears.

Miles follows quickly, glancing towards the front door, the sun still high and shining. Miles points with and invisible index finger, walking backwards.

"I'll be back, Sun," he says, more to himself than to the sunlight. He wants to make it true.


	11. There You Are

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dead bodies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now before anyone says anything, I did confuse eddies part of the map with a different part. Waylon doesnt escape through a ventilation system or pass through a kitchen in the game, but I started writing this chapter and found that him escaping through the vents was more interesting for this fic.
> 
> Fuck canon bro My City Now

_"It's deadly quiet_ ," Miles thinks, " _That's not good_ ," he wishes they started with the labs first, but the trip through the rest of the asylum would have been harder, so might as well get that out of the way before going for the labs below. It would have been better for Waylon, anyway. Getting his things done first so that he doesn't have second thoughts later on. Give him that boost of personal confidence. _You're worth something. You're a first priority here_.

They passed the rusted cage of the elevator, Waylon walking safely in middle between Billy flitting in the front and Miles guarding from the back. They trudged through pools of blood crusted into the carpets. They pushed past scattered furniture, walking silently through familiar rooms, still lit. They came to a long corridor lined with doors, a metal shelving unit blocking the long hallway at the far end. Miles squeezed past Waylon, taking the crowbar, knocking the shelves over with an easy swing of his arm. It fell with a shattering clatter, boxes of files and junk flying. He kicks the items out of the way, letting Waylon walk forward.

"Where are we going?" Miles asks. Waylon's branch stomps silently against the rug.

"Just this way," Waylon responds, quiet. They exit the corridor, coming to another long hallway. Miles pushes a desk out of the way, and they walk for a few feet, until a lit doorway catches Miles eye. Looking through a double door, blocked from the other side, was a body, laying on his side in the middle of a checkered floor.

Miles stops.

Trager's body is rotting, the already twisted flesh taking on a greenish - grey hue. He still has his metal headpiece on, surgical mask covering his nose and mouth. Dark drag marks followed him from the elevator.

"Who moved you?" Miles says aloud. Billy appears on the other side of the door, crouching over Trager. He taps a finger to Trager's forehead.

"Was only a matter of time, men like you don't go to The Good Place," Billy says.

"What's going on?" Waylon stands next to Miles, staring, "Oh, I saw some...some armored guards standing over him before. I was leaving," he looks at Miles, "Who is he?"

"Trager," Miles says, barely missing a beat, "Took my fucking fingers."

His chest burns, eyes pulsing. He clenches his fists. Fear was long gone. He didn't feel fear anymore. All he felt was anger. He pounds on the door with one hand. Waylon jumps back.

"Billy? Can you move any of this shit?" he yells. He wants into the room. He wants to make Trager _suffer._

Billy shakes his head, "He's dead, Upshur, there's no point," his hollow gaze stares right through Miles.

"Fuck that, let me in!" Vengeance boils in his blood.

Another shake of Billy's head, "You already killed him, Upshur. He can't suffer."

"That motherfucker took my fingers!" He's shaking, "Let. Me. In."

He needs this vindication. He can't get his fingers back, can't reverse the things he's been through. But he can take that control back. The control he lost when Father Martin knocked him out. The control he lost when Walker threw him out of the window. The control he lost when that motherfucker strapped him into that wheelchair. Everybody was going to know what happened here, and Miles wasn't going to let the monsters who hurt him get off easy with the sweet, _sweet_ release of death -

Miles pauses.

" _What am I doing_?"

He drops his arms, still shaking. _They're dead, Upshur, they're dead. They suffered for their actions. There's nothing they can do to hurt you. They're all dead._

But if they're all dead, why did it enrage Miles? Why did everything cause him pain, and rage? _Why can't I stop being angry?_

 _"I have to keep myself in check. This isn't normal. It's not right_."

He looks over, and Waylon holds the branch close to him, eyes bulging, mouth a tight line to keep questions from being spoken.

"Let's keep going," there's an angry rasp he can't make go away. Waylon doesn't move.

"Park?" there's a snap to his voice, "Let's go."

Waylon stumbles, tripping over himself. He quickly turns his back, walking forward.

Miles looks back into the room. Billy plays with his fingers, standing over Trager, mouth formed into an almost disappointed frown. Miles follows Waylon.

 

-

 

" _Don't say anything, don't say anything, don't say anything_ ," Waylon repeats to himself in his head. He shouldn't have asked Miles about Trager. He should have known _better_.

They walk in tense silence. Miles mumbles to himself, too low for Waylon to hear. Waylon can't decide if he's speaking to himself or Hope.

They pass a window with an orange glow, and Miles stops. Outside, the church still burns, turning the courtyard to ash, orange and gray smoke curling up into the sky. Waylon stops with him.

"Saw that before leaving, too," _I thought it was a sign from universe, a taunt, mocking me, telling me 'Abandon all hope; ye who enter here.'_  

Miles takes out his camera, snapping a photo. His once scrunched face softened.

"Are you religious at all, Waylon?" Miles asks him.

Waylon's family growing up was as religious as any other. They believed in God, had a cross on the wall and a bible in the bookshelf, but weren't practicing believers, never went to church (unless they were dragged to by their grandparents.) When he got older, science and math caught his attention, and his beliefs took to the backburner. He was always on the fence, much like Lisa was. Religion wasn't a large part of his life, and wasn't much discussed between them. Waylon thought, _thought_ , there might be a God out there, watching over them. Now Waylon was sure there wasn't. A merciful God wouldn't let this place exist. A merciful God wouldn't let suffering happen.

"No."

Nodding, Miles shoves his camera back into his pocket, "Me neither," there's an almost wistful glint in his eyes, "Let's keep moving."

Finally, they reach the kitchen. Waylon stops before the double doors, Miles bumping into him from behind. The dingy grey doors are ominous, the kitchen hidden in shadow behind slim patterned windows. Waylon feels Miles' hands hold his hips, peering over his shoulder.

"What? This the place?" Miles gently moves Waylon to the side, peering through the slim windows, "Too dark to see. Can I have your flashlight?"

Waylon takes his flashlight out of his pocket, handing it to Miles. Miles flicks it on, bright white light shining in Waylon's eyes. He raises a hand to block the beam.

Miles flashes the light in the windows.

"Still can't see anything...Billy? Can you get in there?"

There's no answer. A cold breeze passes through Waylon's body. He shivers.

There's a few seconds of waiting, before Miles stands up, flashlight in hand.

"It's clear, but Billy didn't see any files in there."

Waylon swallows the pit in his throat, pulling the kitchen doors open, entering complete darkness. Stale air with a faint rot fills his lungs. Miles follows close behind, shining the flashlight slow throughout the room. Metal pots and surfaces glint softly in the light.

"It's...past here. We have to crawl through the vents. My letters are on the other side," Waylon makes his way towards the back.

"Can you make it in there? Maybe you should - "

"No," Waylon says, surprising himself, "I can get through....I've gotten through before." _I have to see him. I have to know he's dead._

Miles breathes in, holding his breath. He exhales, "Alright, Park."

Waylon hauls himself over a metal table, stumbling on the landing as he made it to the other side. Miles follows, quick and easy. Waylon stops under the vent. He can't stop shaking.

Miles puts the flashlight down onto the tabletop behind, "Wait, let Billy check it out first."

They wait around a minute, Waylon staring at the open vent, waiting. _He'll come through any minute. He'll yell and scream and call me a whore and I'll never be able to leave -_

Miles takes a deep, shocked breath, "Fuck," face twisting into a grimace, "Park, you know what's past these vents, right?"

Waylon swallows, "Yeah."

Waylon hears the rustling of fabric from behind, too afraid to turn around.

"Christ, Park, maybe you should stay here - "

"I have to go. I have to see him," he can't raise his voice above a strained whisper, "Help me up."

"Park - "

Waylon's nails dig into the bark of the improvised crutch, "I. Have. To see him, Miles."

He can't bring himself to explain, to make Miles understand. He'll know soon enough.

He didn't realize that Miles was so close. A hand touches small of his back, resting. He doesn't feel threatened. It doesn't hurt when Miles touches him. It's a completely calm, innocent action. Waylon wishes it weren't. It would be easier if Miles forced him into a chair and told him to stay put.

"Let's get you up there," he takes the staff from Waylon, gently edging it from his tight grasp. When Waylon lets go, he see's the red marks from where bark had bitten into his skin. Miles leans it against the disused stove next to them.

"Let me give you a boost up," Miles bends down on one knee, right shoulder touching the wall, hands cupped with fingers interlocking. Waylon steps with his right, bracing himself on Miles' shoulders. With little effort (and little warning,) Miles stands with a _'Hup!_ ', almost throwing Waylon up. Waylon squeaks in surprise, grasping the edge of the vent. Miles pushed his hands upward, Waylon easily being able to crawl into the opening.

 _"He shouldn't be able to lift me like that - I'm too heavy_ ," Waylon thinks to himself. His mind wanders to when he saw Blair, bleeding in the doorway, where the Walrider picked him up like a doll made of meat. Maybe Hope gave Miles some sort of superhuman ability? Or, maybe Miles was just naturally strong?

"You alright, Park?" Waylon hears Miles call from below, shaking him from his thoughts.

The unnaturally familiar scent of rotting meat fills his senses. Waylon gags, "I'm fine....I'm gonna go further in."

Waylon sits up on his knees, left side dipping slightly, crawling forward on his hands. He makes it a few feet, before he feels the vent shake and shift behind him. He peers over his shoulder, and Miles is hauling himself up. He grunts, but doesn't look otherwise perturbed. Waylon turns back to keep crawling forward, rounding the corner of the ventway. He was met with a grim, familiar image of a man's head forced through another vent opening. His skin was grey now, maggots crawling over the scratches on his cheeks from being forced through the metal, mouth hanging open. The smell overwhelmed Waylon, and he fought to keep his composure.

He passed the man's head, hearing Miles swear behind him. He can now see the exit of the vent, the heads of flayed bodies peeking out from his partially - blocked view. His body shakes. _You'll see him, you'll see him_. He keeps his gaze straight, trying not to look up, trying to stay calm, ignoring the ringing in his ears and the adrenaline that pulsed through his body.

He doesn't notice that he had reached the end of the ventway. Waylon pitches forward with a yell.

Miles yells back, a strong grip grabbing Waylon by the back of his pants. For a moment, Waylon dangles, like a cat caught by an owner. He feels himself be lowered, gently, onto the ground, enough for Waylon to plant his hands on the ground, letting him do an awkward somersault down. Miles follows quickly behind, dropping loudly onto the wooden floor. Miles grabs Waylon by his jacket, helping him up to his feet.

"Jesus _Christ_ ," Miles swears. He keeps his hands on Waylon's shoulders.

Waylon forgot how bright it was in this room, decay and rot overwhelming him. It's sickeningly familiar. Waylon feels the air of the room converge onto him, an oppressive blanket of evil and hatred and the hot stench of death. He tries to focus on the pressure of Miles' hands on him, but Miles' touch feels so far, so unimportant to the room around him.

_Look up. He's there. He's dead. Look up._

Waylon closes his eyes.

He hears Miles speak, but his mind doesn't process the sounds. His fingertips buzz, numbness creeping up his arms, up his legs, chest tightening.

The pressure on his shoulders fall away, time slowing. The room flips.

Waylon doubles over.

 

-

 

Miles barely has time to process the horror of the room before Waylon collapses in his arms. Miles helps lean him down to his knees, trying to avoid laying Waylon down in rotting piles of meat. He kicks away a greying chunk of flesh.

"Easy, Park, easy," he tries to keep his eyes on Waylon, but his attention keeps getting pulled away by the collection of hanging bodies on the ceiling. Rotten blood drops down onto the wood planks, puddles of dark red wet and glistening in the bright white lighting of the room.

Waylon groans, lurching forward, vomiting.

Miles swears, holding Waylon back by the collar of his coat, trying to keep him from falling into his vomit puddle. Waylon's body shakes and thrashes, muttering between spewings. When Waylon finally resorts to dry - heaving and spitting, Miles loosens his grip on Waylon's collar. He rubs Waylon's back, easing him into a sitting position.

"It's alright, Park, there you go. Let it all out, pal."

Waylon hiccups, gasping shallow breathes. Miles pulls him away from the center of the room to directly under the vent. He brushes the sweat from Waylon's forehead. His skin had gone pale, eyes glazed over.

"Billy?" Miles swivels his head. He looks up. Billy is crouched in the entrance of the vent, watching, black mouth a tight line.

"Can you watch him? I'm gonna take a look around."

Billy disappears, reappearing next to Waylon, legs pulled up to his chest, one slim hand on Waylon's arm. He's uncharacteristically quiet, but Miles decides not to bring attention to it.

Miles stands, pacing the room. It's bright with white spotlights, no shadows hiding the horror. The floor under him creaks with old, rotting wood. An older part of the asylum, Miles guesses. Glancing around, Miles sees a decrepit basketball headboard.

"Old gym," Miles says to himself. He takes his camera out, snapping a photo. The old wood under his feet is wet with blood and gore, chunks of human flesh lying under the bodies hanging from the ceiling. There's metal pikes and poles dug into the floor, multiple ropes attached and leading up.

Miles counts twenty six bodies, all hanging in organized rows from the ceiling. He snaps a photo. The longer he stares, Miles notices a pattern. All the victims are men, in different stages of decomposition, with long slits between their thighs that reach to their navels and lower backs. Miles shivered at the animal that created them. Hopefully they were dead when they recieved those injuries. But there was one man, in the center of the ceiling, that was different.

The man was fresher compared to the other bodies hanging. His features gaunt, stomach ripped open, metal pole through his chest. Almost black blood dripping down hanging guts, landing along the wood and metal pikes throughout the room. His face was scarred, reminding Miles of when he first saw Billy in the Engine. Billy had looked calm, but older, much older with strange scarring, eerily similar to the man on the ceiling.

The way he was positioned was interesting as well. Unlike the neat rows of the other bodies, he was hanging between haphazardly, limbs outstretched, like he was descending from the sky.

"Fuckin' fallen angel," Miles mutters, snapping a photo.

The longer Miles looked at the man, the more he confused him. He was wearing what Miles recognized as part of a suit, with a soiled vest and button - down shirt and a pair of loafers. Where he got this outfit, Miles had no idea.

In the man's bloody grip, Miles notices a black binder.

"There you are," Miles tucks his camera away. He's positive it has to be Waylon's files. It couldn't be anything else.

He looks over to Waylon and Billy. Waylon has his legs pulled close, face hidden behind his knees. Billy is copying his position, staring at Miles stoically.

A hundred questions run through Miles' head. What happened here? How is Waylon connected to it? Who was this man on the ceiling? Waylon won't be answering those questions anytime soon. Miles pulls out the notepad he took from the front desk, quickly jotting down everything of note in the room.

Staring up, Miles sighs, "How am I supposed to get that shit down?"

He glances around, noticing and picking up a metal pike laying on the ground. It's about four feet, rusted all to Hell and light. Miles points it up in one hand, aiming for the man's arm.

"Careful," Billy says, voice soft.

"I'm a good shot, don't worry," Miles responds, pulling his arm back.

He spears the pole forward. The pole flies through the quiet room with a _whish_ , slicing the air. It impales itself straight through the man's shoulder, hitting the ceiling with a metallic _thunk_. Miles breathes out. He didn't realize he was using so much strength with his throw.

There's a squelching of flesh, and the man's arm comes undone from the shoulder, sliding down the pike from the wound. The disembodied arm falls with a wet _schwack_ , dirtied fingers clutching the binder tight.

Miles snaps a quick photo. Immediately after, he hears a loud, almost angry sigh.

Miles turns his head. Billy is sitting cross - legged, fists clenched on his knees. Miles notices a vein bulging in his neck.

"Billy? Something wrong?" He asks. Billy shakes his head.

Standing, he looks back at the man on the ceiling, "You know this guy?"

Billy purses his lips, disappearing. Miles sees him reappear next to him, standing, staring straight up.

"I knew him. He was in the Engine with me," his voice is strained, "He was a bad man. Very, very, bad."

Billy's lithe form trembles, just slightly enough for Miles to notice.

"He's evil. Pure and simple. He let his own hurt take over. He hurt people."

Miles couldn't tell if Billy was grieving for the man, or if he was glad the man was dead. Billy is the same height as Miles, back straight. Miles raises a hand to touch Billy's shoulder. Instead of passing through his form, it settled on greying skin. He was cold and smooth, reminding Miles of a marble statue.

"Did he hurt you?" he asked, gentle and quiet.

"No. He was so full of hatred. I could feel it in him. I didn't like him."

"What was his name?"

"Edward Gluskin," Billy responds, voice full of venom, "An eternity, deadly and sick, an awful display of gluttony and pride, carving through skin.....the doctors called him Eddie," Billy crouches low, holding a hand over the disembodied arm. Smoke pours from his fingers, encasing the arm. Flesh falls away, collecting in the smoke, trails flowing back to Billy's form.

As Miles watches, the arm disappears, bit by bit, piece by piece, pulling away flesh and muscle and bone. There's a puff of smoke, and all that's left behind is the black binder that was clutched in it's fingers.

Billy stands, staring at Gluskin's body.

"He can stay up there. Where he belongs."


	12. Get It Over With

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Exploring

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK OK OK OK....chapter 12 lets get this bread!

_**Darkness surrounds him. Shadow...but it doesn't feel like shadow.** _

_**It feels more like emptiness. A vast expanse of nothing, letting Waylon float along.** _

_**Turning a tired head, he sees a cloud of static buzz. It flickers, Waylon getting lost in the snow. A face appears in the cloud. One with long hair, a large nose, and dark, hollow eyes. The face smiles gently.** _

_**Hands extend from the cloud, scarred and ashy, palms up.** _

A cold chill forces Waylon awake. Head down, arms hugged around his knees. He sits up, back against the wall. He stretches his legs out, rubbing the calf of his left leg.

He remembers entering the room, throwing up, and blacking out. He rubs his sore eyes, head pounding, stomach in knots. He wipes his mouth with his sleeve, catching dried saliva and vomit. He grimaces, seeing Miles standing towards the middle of the room, thumbing through a dirty black binder.

Waylon can clearly remember Gluskin trying to string him up, and when the beam above gave way, Gluskin had somehow snatched the binder from his hands. He didn't bother trying to get it back, his body too high to reach. How Miles got it down from the ceiling, he had no idea.

Waylon lets out a groan, leaning his head back on the wall, staring up.

The rotting and mutilated corpses of Gluskin's victims stare down at him. Hollow, glassy glares that shoot through Waylon's body. Flies buzz, and the smell of decay overwhelms his senses again. He sucks his breaths through his teeth.

"You OK?" Miles asks gently.

Waylon feels his whole face grow hot, a stone in his gut dropping, "Sorry, sorry, sorry," _How embarrassing, he watched you lose it._

Miles closed the binder, walking towards Waylon.

"Don't worry about it, Park. Once the adrenaline leaves, you feel...." he waves his hands searching for the words.

"Vulnerable," Waylon finishes, rubbing the front of his chest, feeling the healed - over scar in the middle.

"Yeah. Like you lost the only edge keeping you alive," Miles holds his free hand out.

Waylon nods in agreement, taking his hand. Miles pulls Waylon do his feet with no effort. Miles pats his arm, grin strained.

Waylon stares back at the ceiling. Now clear - headed, Waylon can see Gluskin - strung up in the rafters, surrounded by the people he's violated and murdered. His eyes were glassy - _dead_ \- his stomach and chest ripped open, insides on sick display. A metal pole stuck from his shoulder, left arm missing.

"Weird, don't remember Gluskin losing an arm," he says thoughtlessly.

Miles taps him on the shoulder, "Yeah, he was holding your evidence. I had to get creative," he holds the binder out, "I already started looking through it. Sorry."

Waylon holds a hand up, shaking his head.

"It's....it's fine. That's what we came here for, isn't it?" he looks back at Gluskin's body. He still can't believe it. He's _dead_. He can't hurt Waylon, or anyone else for that matter, ever again. A weight should be lifting from his shoulders. Should.

It's silly, stupid. The dead can't hurt the living. Why was Waylon still frightened of him? Gluskin is nothing but a hanging corpse, life long gone and innards out, mouth still slightly agape in pain. He'll stay like that until maggots rip the flesh from his bones, in a more - than - fitting final resting place. It's cruel, it's very cruel, but Waylon wishes Miles had pulled him apart piece by piece, however he did to get the binder back.

"He was in the Engine, with Billy, did you know?" Miles asks

"I...Yeah. I was fixing this system error. He got out of the Engine, came up to the glass, banging on it, screaming....I felt sorry for him," his stomach rolled. _He looked terrified - as terrified as I looked when he tied me down to that table and tried to -_

Waylon shakes the memory from his head, squeezing his eyes shut. He scratches at his arms, anxious, "Can we get out of here? Please?"

"Anything else you want to do here?"

"I just want to get out of here."

Miles helps lift Waylon back into the vents. When they land on the other side, back in the kitchen, he feels Miles hold a heavy hand on his upper arm. It feels hot, like holding an iron to his jacket.

"Are you gonna be OK, Park? We can run through these," he holds the binder up, "Real quick, take a break before we get to the labs."

 _Take a break_. Waylon wants to vomit. He shrugs Miles' hand off, grabbing his branch.

"Let's just get your camera back."

 

-

 

Miles watches Billy stomp forward, ahead of Waylon. His shoulders back, head slightly down, fists clenched tight. The charred scar on his back glowed with dim grey light, like the shine of a TV screen. He was bothered by Gluskin's body, that was obvious. The way Billy spoke about Gluskin, it sounded like he was mourning him, in a way. Miles noted Billy as empathetic, emotional, Gluskin's well - deserved death (and if Miles learned anything from skimming through Waylon's files, it was _well_ deserved,) caused him a natural, if confusing, reaction. They were in the same glass tanks together, after all. Time can bond people together, even if one was just a kid and the other a madman.

Miles wonders what Billy experienced in the Engine, in an eternal lucid dream state. Everything he's learned so far, it felt like Billy could almost share his dreams.

Miles almost laughs at himself. _Dream sharing_. One more notch in the crazy belt. Though maddening, it wasn't entirely impossible. He wants to push aside the dreams of a black burning earth and a bright white sky.

Waylon leads them back through the hallway, Miles glancing through the blocked double doors to see Trager's corpse, still laying in the same position they left it. Anger spikes through his gut, and he tears his eyes away, focusing on Waylon's uneven gait instead.

Then there was Waylon. He witnessed so much evil, Miles couldn't even scratch the surface of it. Everything that happened to him here, Waylon kept tightly under wraps. Miles had leafed through the papers, before Waylon had woken up, and saw the bloodied and frantic writings of a man who though he was going to die. Scribbled letters mixed with typed forms. Heartbreaking, hopeless, dried blood smeared some of the pen ink. He had touched one letter, written more shaky than the others.

_"Still intact. I'm here, Lisa. It's still me. He...He tried to make me his bride. To cut me. Maybe I was wrong. Telling the world would only draw it here. Should this place just die and fester here? I won't tell the world if it means spreading the infection. Let it die alone. Let it rot."_

Miles touched small dots that caused the ink to run. Tear stains.

The burning hunk of anger in his gut had grown brighter.

They made their way back to the main lobby, stopping at the rusted metal outline of the elevator. The doors were open, yellow light flickering. Miles wasn't worried. Billy told him it was clear. _I killed them. I killed Wernicke. I didn't realize the pain it caused you, Miles._

" _Wernicke deserved it, anyway. Fuckin' Nazi piece of shit, watched all these people suffer and die. Getting ripped apart was a mercy_."

Miles watched as Billy walked into the elevator, turning to face the two men, jaw clenched. Rather than a fighter's stance, Billy looked ready to flee.

"So the labs are clear?" Waylon asks, not making an effort to enter the elevator.

"Clear," Billy responds.

There's silence for a few seconds, before Miles remembers that Waylon can't see or hear Billy.

"It's clear. Hold onto this," Miles hands Waylon the binder. Waylon takes it, lifting up his white shirt to hold it under his clothes. Miles can still see he's wearing the asylum uniform underneath.

 _"Why is he still wearing that?_ " Miles asks himself. He can also smell faint rotten gore on him. Waylon hadn't changed at all, just pulled on clothes over his uniform. It was strange, but harmless. To Waylon, it was probably a way of coping. To Miles, it felt like shackles chaining him to what happened here.

Miles steps into the elevator, Billy exploding into smoke, fusing into him. Waylon follows close behind.

The key is still in the lock to the labs. He twists it with his right hand, bone scraping the metal.

He and Waylon share a glance. Waylon's mouth creased into a tight, worried frown.

Miles wishes he felt anything. Anything that wasn't the gentle, recurring hum of irritation and anger under his skin.

He pushes the down button. The elevator doors shut.

 

-

 

They didn't speak until they reached the bottom. The first thing that hits them is the cold. The oppressive chill of the labs, every wall ice. Miles shivers and walks forward, Waylon following close behind. The closer they get to the double doors with the Walrider symbol on the top, the more Miles feels Billy shift and stir, his chest blazing. It's not painful, more of a dull throb, holding your hand too close to a burning fire.

He feels someone grab the back of his coat. He turns, seeing Waylon sheepishly holding onto him. The color in his face had drained away.

"What's wrong?" Miles looks around the icy hallway. Nothing catches his eye.

"My...my things should still be in there," Waylon says, "Like, my car keys, my wallet..." he lets go of Miles' coat.

Pushing aside the confusion of Waylon grabbing onto him, Miles nods his head, "Where would those be? Front desk?"

"Yeah, just through these doors," Waylon looks skittish.

"Just stay behind me, alright?" Miles asks of him.

Miles approaches the double doors, pushing them open.

What hits him first is a bitter cold, and the sickening scent of rotten meat. Miles waves his hands.

"Fuck, can I go an hour without this shit?" he says out loud.

There's torn limbs and decaying meat in every inch of the room, blood smeared in large drag marks. Waylon swears behind him. Miles walks behind the familiar front desks, the screens of the televisions turning to snow as he approaches. He pulls items out from under the desk, pulling drawers out of their places. He makes it from the left side to the right, finally reaching a locked drawer. He takes the crowbar, sliding it into the drawer handle, pushing down until he hears a snap of metal, the lock giving way. He opens it. Inside are large plastic bags, akin to police evidence bags, each filled with random personal items. Cellphones, wallets, jewellery, watches, all collected.

"Confiscated?" Miles asks. Waylon nods.

Miles pulls every bag out, fifteen of them, lying them on the desk above. Waylon raises each to the TV screens, taking a hard look at each. Miles watches him go through around eight before he sees a glimmer of recognition on Waylon's face. Waylon opens the bag up, pouring out the contents.

Miles counts one smartphone, a weathered brown wallet, a pack of gum, and one gold wedding band. Waylon quickly pockets everything. Everything, except the ring. His hand pauses over the ring, fingers trembling. He takes it, quickly shoving it into his pocket.

Miles didn't understand why. It was obviously his wedding ring - why not put it on?

Waylon stares at him, "We had this parking garage, in the back....my keys are missing."

"Fuck."

"Some of the employees here got out, I'm positive, but...if they took my car...." his face fell, "We had some stuff in there - old family photos - some old mail...Miles, if they find out where I live - "

"It's not gonna come to that, Waylon. I'll make sure it doesn't," It's a terrible, terrible, hollow promise. After they post their evidence, it would be only a matter of time before someone came for him, came for his family. Even if Miles edited the video, blacked out names in Waylon's letters, Murkoff would find out eventually.

Waylon looks unconvinced, but Miles presses on.

"Even if they took your car, whoever did probably dumped it as soon as it either ran out of gas, or as soon as he got home. There's nobody looking for you. If anything, Murkoff will probably think you died here and erase every record of you ever being on their payroll."

Waylon thinks, looking down, "And what if they come?"

"Then we make them regret they did."

Coming out of his mouth, the words sound almost sinister. Waylon looks at him, surprised.

Billy shifts into Miles' view, sitting on the top of the desk, legs spread. His stare is a thousand yards long, and glares right through Miles' body. Miles pretends he doesn't notice.

"Don't worry about the car. Don't worry about the shit that happened to you here. What matters now is the truth."

Miles grabs his crowbar, "Let's find my camera and get the fuck out of here."


	13. Vent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> let it all out, man, let it all out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ah, im trying 2 publish chapters consistently, but inspiration kicks my ass and not in the good way....i have some future chapters planned out. more coming soon :(

Miles takes quick photos of the confiscated bags, jotting down notes. Waylon quietly watches him open each bag, open the wallets, lay them out neat for each photo. When Miles is finished, he shakes his head in sympathy.

"I don't recognized any of these people...but Trager's wallet is here. I think these might be the shit they stole off of ex - Murkoff employees. Fifteen. Fifteen fucking people they tortured to keep this project a secret. Fucking animals."

Before Waylon can respond, Miles waves for him to follow. He agrees quietly.

Waylon doesn't want to fight. He doesn't want to bring stress or danger to his family. But, too late unfortunately, Waylon realizes that fighting is the only thing he can do. He fought for his mental state, his life, the fucking dick between his legs. Now he'll have to fight for everything he holds dear. That terrified him. He wishes the floor would open up into a fiery pit and swallow him. Anything to put off the inevitable. Anything to stop this in it's tracks.

He follows Miles throughout the labs quietly, carefully stepping around bodies and blood.

"Labs got hit the hardest, it looks like," he says out loud. Miles only grunts in agreement, taking scattered photos of the messes the Walrider left behind.

He thumbs the wedding ring in his pocket. It burns, hot, and he pulls his hand out with a hiss. He remembers that he and Lisa wanted to get plain, matching bands, both inscribed with their wedding date. She hadn't wanted a diamond, just matching plain bands. They were partners. Equals.

He tried not to notice the puzzled look on Miles' face when he saw him pick up his ring, and put it in his pocket instead of putting it on his finger.

He wants to put it on. He wants to.

He _can't_.

The memory of his wife, lovely in her wedding dress, the simple church they were married in, their family sitting in their pews. Rotted, twisted. Decaying and ruined. He can only see the mannequin in Gluskin's room. He can only hear Gluskin's sickly sweet words, his horrible promises. Screaming, so much fucking _screaming_. He doesn't want to. He wants to stop feeling, stop _hearing_. _Stop, just stop_ -

"Park."

Waylon closes his mouth, realizing he'd been babbling out loud. His whole body tenses, skin going hot.

Miles doesn't bother to turn around.

Miles pushes obstacles out of the way with ease, helping Waylon through. Each time he does, he looks more and more surprised with himself.

" _Does he not know_?" Waylon thinks to himself. How could you not notice an immense, more than superhuman strength? He's about to bring it up, before Miles pushes open double doors and gasps.

"Fuck," Miles says, voice low.

In the entrance of this hallway, it's wall to wall covered in bone marrow and blood. The vent above is dented, hanging on by a few wires and screws, flesh ripped in forced - open slots. The smell of decay overwhelms Waylon, and he covers his nose.

"This," Miles says, and he brings out his camera again, taking a photo, "Is the remains of Chris Walker. Big motherfucker. Popped like a fucking balloon when the Walrider crossed his path."

Miles stands still in the doorway, staring. Waylon sees his hands flex, clench, flex again, before he walks through the blood. Waylon tries to carefully step around the remains.

They make it a few yards before Miles stop again at a metal doorway, door open. Waylon remembers it well. It's Dr. Wernicke's office. He only saw Wernicke once, and never spoke to him, but Waylon was familiar with his work. Waylon only thought of him as a monster. Who could ever be proud of the things they've created here? Of the suffering they caused?

Miles snaps a photo of the office from the doorway, "Hold on," he says.

There's a silent pause. Before Waylon can ask what they're waiting for, the lights of the office flicker. There's static in his head, rumbling reverberating throughout the room. Waylon watches as the painting on the wall shakes violently, canvas tearing to reveal the icy wall behind, frame snapping onto the ground. The desk is pushed to the left side of the room, drawers and papers pulled and flying, smashing so hard into the walls that the ice cracks. Chairs were thrown, snapping as soon as they hit the walls.

The static ringing in his head grows louder. It spikes painfully down from the back of his head, down his spine, painful and burning. Waylon braces himself against the doorway, unable to look away.

The desk flips, wood snapping.

Miles is unperturbed, standing calm.

There's a screeching through the air.

" _The Swarm_ ," Waylon thinks, fingers digging into the metal doorway.

The light above stops flickers, bulb exploding, sparks flying.

The room stops shaking. The static in Waylon's head stops, pain subsiding.

Miles snaps a photo, "Feel better?"

 

-

 

"Let it all out, man, let it all out," Miles says under his breath, watching Billy's cloudy form tear apart Wernicke's office.

Wernicke told Miles that Billy saw him as a father. It didn't take a genius to figure out that Wernicke only said that in an attempt to manipulate him. He took a young soul and turned him inside out, used him as a nano factory, used the trust he had against him. If only Miles could have been awake to see Billy tear Wernicke apart. Murkoff destroyed his life.

Miles wants to make sure they destroy Murkoff in return.

"I hate that painting," Billy had said, standing in the doorway of Wernicke's office, "I hate this office. I'd watch him sit here, all day long in his chair. He...he let everything happen. All. This. Suffering....for the what?"

There was a burning in Miles' chest, bright and nearing painful. He had to let Billy vent, let him take his anger out.

Billy's hollow eyes lined with white liquid. Miles nods, motioning for the room, telling Waylon to hold it.

He watched Billy turn into a black mass. He darted around the room, breaking furniture, the icy walls webbing with cracks. Uninhibited, raw rage tore the office apart.

When the chaos subsides, Billy appears, standing in the middle of Wernicke's office.

White streaks run down Billy's face, sweat and tears on grey skin. His chest rises and falls, breathing heavy. His hands shake, mouth turned into a crooked grimace.

Miles raises his camera, snapping a photo.

"Feel better?"

Billy nods his head, slow, thoughtful. He closes his eyes, disappearing into a mass of smoke, falling back into Miles' body. The burning of the mark on Miles' chest stops, a soft buzz in the back of his head quietly. When Miles turns around to leave the room, he almost walks into Waylon. Waylon was slightly doubled - over in the doorway. He didn't look at Miles.

"Park?"

"What the _fuck_ was that?" Waylon's voice trembles.

"Hard to explain," and it was. How can you explain the anger of a man who'll stay nineteen forever? Who's life was ripped away from him because of greed? But he tries his damnedest.

"Rudolf Wernicke. You know him, he worked here, shitty accent, you know. He was close to Billy, deluded himself into thinking he was some sort of father figure to him. Billy hated him. Just wanted to ruin his memory, I think."

"Where's Wernicke now?" Waylon asks, taking a deep breath and standing straight.

"Dead. Killed," _by Billy_.

Waylon shakes his head, "Only a matter of time."

"Any motherfucker who could work here and stand by while they violated all these people deserved to die. Wernicke especially."

They start walking again, going through the long blue hallways. They make it through a checkpoint, up the large metal stairway, past bulky servers, through two sets of double doors, before they enter the outer chamber of the Engine. Everything is the same as when Miles last left it, covered in blood and most of the equipment burnt out. Miles can remember being chased by the Walrider, running like a fucking madman trying to shut Billy's life support systems down.

What confused Miles the most, out of everything, was why Billy survived, but the Walrider didn't. Why was the Walrider an evil mass, but Billy was a damaged young man?

Miles stares through the glass separating the Engine from the control desk.

"You're still in there, Billy," he says. Billy's tank is hidden behind the center console, "Fuck, should we try and bury you?"

"No. I won't need a burial," Billy's voice flows out, as does his smoky form. He flows through the open door to the center chamber. He stands tall in front of one of the console screens, the screen turning to snow.

"We should destroy this place," he says, voice dropping to a softer tone. One of the pods is cracked, glass scattered. He approaches, running a grey hand over bloodied glass, "We can't let Murkoff recover anything."

Miles agrees, "How would we? Light the place up?"

"Give me some time here. I'll take care of everything."

Billy sounded so sure of his ability, Miles had no reason to doubt him.

Miles walked through the open doorway of the chamber, the strong scent of ozone filling his lungs, walls of ice and stone giving the room an empty, lifeless feel. He looks back, Waylon staring down at the center consoles, unmoving from the upper walkway.

"You wait here, Park, my camera is down here."

Waylon doesn't respond, leaning against the desk above.

Miles steps across the rocky surface, hearing his quiet steps suddenly echo loudly as he steps over metal grating. Miles stops at the glass ball holding Billy's body, the blood murking the liquid inside, masking his body. Miles reaches out, touching the glass.

"It hurt when I died. It felt like thousands of tiny glass shards scraping through my veins...it was for the best. I don't hurt anymore," Billy says from behind.

Wernicke was wrong, but after all of the suffering called here, Billy had to die. If he lived, he would have just been scooped up and transferred by Murkoff goons, Walrider and all. Or worse, the Walrider could have done what Billy did to Miles, take over his body and wreak havoc on the world. Who knows if Billy would even survive being out of the Engine.

Billy peeks over his shoulder, "Hello, me," he says. He taps on the glass, "Oooh, I bled pretty well."

He flashes a smile in Miles' direction.

"Don't be weird, Hope," Miles pulls his hand off, looking behind towards the cavern wall. High along the wall there was a smattering of blood. He looks down, another smear on the rock floor.

" _This is where it threw me...so where's my camera_?" Miles tries to remember getting up, drawing a blank. He looks at Billy, Billy tapping on his once prison, studying the color.

"Hope, you said I got up after the Walrider dropped me, right?"

"Yes," Billy responds, not looking away from his tank.

"Where did I go?"

Billy hums. He gives one last, long look at his pod, before darting over to a side exit. Miles follows behind. Billy slips through the crack under the double doors. As Miles comes closer, he notices the windows were blocked out with red. He takes a deep breath, pushing the doors open.


	14. Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Missing things are found

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this took so long to write, but I had fun actually....wanna insert a lot more action in this fic

Miles slips, falling backward onto his ass, crowbar flying from his hand. He yells, skull cracking against the flat stone floor, his handgun digging into the small of his back. His teeth clench together, eyes squeezed shut in pain. Stars dance behind his eyes. His head pulses. He opens his eyes.

"Are you alright Upshur?" Billy asks, kneeling over him.

"I'm fine - " he shakes his head, rubbing his temples, "What the fuck did I slip in?"

Miles sits up on his elbows. The once light grey rock was dyed a deep, chunky crimson. Wall to wall, disembodied limbs, pieces of grey matter, gory chunks, totally drenched the exitway. On the left wall, a helmet was forced into a webbing crack. Miles could see the meaty stump of a disembodied head still inside. Miles whistles.

"You really ripped them apart, Billy....it looks like a fucking art instillation in here," Miles looks down at his legs, pants and shoes seeped with blood. He sits up, using the open double doors to help himself up. Billy was nowhere to be seen. He takes out his camera, snapping a photo of the gory mess. Then, carefully, Miles slides through the doors. He grabs his crowbar, using one end to push around the remains. He pulls together a collection of human limbs and organs, ripped clothing, bone shards, parts of twisted and broken firearms, and other debris he can't ID.

"Fuck, I can't tell where one guy starts and where one guy ends.. _.fuck_ \- " he looks up. In the right wall, a mechanical chair was embedded into the ice, bones and limbs bent and crushed underneath. Anger spiked through him. He forced it down.

"Ouch...looked like that hurt, Wernicke," if Miles couldn't take his physical anger out, he'd let his silver tongue do the talking. Miles pushes through a few more piles, seeing nothing that was or could have been his camera. He carefully steps next to Wernicke's body, jamming the crowbar between the body and the wall. A broken arm sticking out slipped down to the floor with a meaty _thwack_ , the metal of his mechanical chair having severed it from the rest of the body. Miles grimaces.

"Can't hold yourself together, huh?" he presses the crowbar down.

Wernicke falls to the ground with a thunderous groan of metal. Miles barely has time to hop out of the way to avoid being crushed. Wernicke looks as bad as Miles could've imagined. Wernicke's skin was peeled off, revealing the red tissued underneath. His eyes were missing, the middle of the skull caved in, teeth sticking out at unnatural and odd angles. He looked crushed, almost flat. Pieces of his motorized chair sticking through his body at random angles.

"He used a whole lot of rage here, huh Doc?" Miles said to Wernicke's body, "Wish I was awake to see it."

He prods Wernicke's caved - in chest with the crowbar, out of cruel curiosity more than anything. He hits something hard - too hard to be an organ, his sternum missing, snapped off. Miles prods at the object, pushing aside tissue and splattered organs. It's small, rectangular, wedged into Wernicke's ribcage.

"Bingo," Miles says. He hooks the end of the crowbar around the body of the camcorder, pulling it up and out of Wernicke's chest cavity. It's still warm. He opens up the screen of the camera, using his sleeve to clear the blood, pressing the _On_ button. The low battery icon popped up.

"Still working, that's good," he wipes wet blood from the outer body, shoving the camera into his pocket, "Welcome back, old friend."

He takes one quick photo of Wernicke's dead body before he exits the hallway.

"Found my camera," he says to Billy, "It was in Wernicke's ribcage - did you put it there on purpose?"

Billy doesn't answer, still focused on his glass pod. He circles it, one hand staying on the glass. It reminds Miles of a vulture circling a the corpse of a dead animal.

"We need to destroy my body," he says, tone even and normal, "We can't let them take me. The rest of the bodies, they'll get nothing from. There's too much in mine for them to rebuild."

Billy pulls his arm back, punching through the glass. Cracks spread, red fluid spurting from the slim openings. The orb shatters, bloody fluid erupting onto the grate floor. Miles watches the aged, pale body of William Hope fall to the floor, tubing and wires still penetrating his flesh. His wrinkles slightly smoothed from his time in the water, body bloated, skin dyed red. His ankles and wrists were still bound, greasy hair laying flat, hiding his face. Billy crouches over his body. He waves a hand, and the binds on the body's wrists crack, breaking off, arms and legs falling limp. He brushes the hair from the body's face.

"I look so different," Billy muses, touching the face, "I look....old. Very old."

The body's eyes were glassy, a milky film over them. Billy runs a hand over the face, closing the eyes.

"I wanted to be cremated when I died. I wanted to be scattered in the woods behind my home," Billy pulls the wires and tubing from the body, dark fluid leaking from the openings, "But we can't have all the things in life we want, can we?"

Miles watches Billy pulls the body up, holding it in a limp hug. The body's skin decays, turning from big and bloated to thin and ashy. Inch by inch, Billy lets the body degenerate, smoke and dust encasing him.

Miles remembers a National Geographic documentary he watched some years back. Utterly uninteresting. Most of it. What caught Miles' attention was a time - lapsed clip of the dead corpse of a bird being fed on, bones stripped of meat by small red ants and flies.

Miles steps away, to give Billy a private moment to himself. He can't imagine seeing yourself dead. He wonders how Billy is feeling. Deciding he'll talk to him about it later, Miles goes back towards the metal steps. He can see Waylon, staring down at him from the windows. Miles climbs up the stairway. Waylon is sitting in a rolling chair, hand holding his bad leg.

"Is your leg OK?" Miles asks him.

"It's fine," Waylon responds, curt. He looks worse for wear - emotionally exhausted, throw - up staining his shirt and sleeves.

"I found my camera. Still works."

Waylon slumps into his chair, exhaling worried breath, "That's great. Let's fucking get out of here."

 

-

 

Waylon watches from the walkway above, watching Miles pace the rocky floor, having a conversation with an entity Waylon can't see. Miles found his camera, Waylon found his files and letters. Everything was falling into place. They didn't even pass through the patient rooms, or the showers. The worst was over. Hope fluttered in Waylon's chest. He watched Miles climb back up the steps.

"So, Billy's gonna destroy everything here. He'll be down here while we head up top. You said that you drove here, where's your car now?"

"We have to go back outside, there's a small parking garage around the building," _but if my keys are missing, I doubt it's there at all._

"Alright, let's check if it's there."

Miles helps Waylon stand, and Waylon notices the humorous amount of blood staining his pants. Miles shrugs.

"It's...well my camera was shoved in a ribcage, and I had to get it back, y'know?" Miles said like it was obvious, hands waving.

They both walk quietly back out the labs, Waylon expertly keeping his gaze down at Miles' feet ahead of him. In almost no time, they're both out of the labs, into the elevator, and back into the main foyer of the asylum. Waylon feels lighter. He did it. They went through again, and he came out OK.

"What's the smile for, Park?" Miles asks him. _I'm smiling_.

"Nothing," Waylon looks down at his shoes.

The two walk down the carpeted steps into the foyer, hardly paying the rotting bodies any attention as they exit the building. Bright afternoon sunlight shone down on the two. Miles looks up, points to the sun.

"Said I'd be back, didn't I?" he says, "Which way to the garage?"

Waylon leads them around the side of the asylum, through an iron gate that Miles cracked the lock off of. They follow a weed - infested, dilapidated stone road. The road dipped downhill. Waylon struggled to keep balance, using his staff as extra support. He looks at the branch. There was nothing special about it, a regular branch with dried dirt crusted, bark stripped off in odd parts. He's grateful for it. It's one more thing he owes Miles for. He holds his responsibility, his guilt, tight in his gut, a tightly packed, hot ball. He'd make it up, he'd make everything up, for Miles, even if it took a thousand years.

" _If I live out the week_ ," Waylon thinks bitterly.

At the bottom of the hill, they turn around the looming, tilted stone of the asylum. Behind the asylum was an organized car park - cleared of trees and brush. Crumbling stone walls that come up to Waylon's thighs surround the lot. It's mostly still full. _People made it out...where are they now?_ Waylon studies the lot, looking for the family's car.

"My car isn't here," Waylon says, heaviness sinking in his stomach. He had hoped that his car would have still been there. He doesn't know what to do about it. File a police report? Call his insurance company? Luckily, their town was small, easy to walk around in. Maybe it would be better to forget the station wagon, cancel his insurance.

Miles tells Waylon to stay outside the lot, while he slinked towards the cars. He jiggled handles, peered into windows, none of the cars opening, not a person in sight. The wind shook the surrounding forest, soft rays peeking through the canopies. Miles looks up at Waylon, shakes his head.

Miles looks off, confused, a sound catching his attention. His head twists around.

Coming out of the forest, a dark shape walks through. Face covered by a helmet, head - to - toe in black kevlar. The figure grasps at the trunk of a tree, steadying themself. Their hand holds a single handgun, raised and pointed in Miles' direction. Miles puts his hands up.

Waylon crouches low behind one of the slipping stone walls, his head poking out.

" _Shit...shitshitshitshitshit_ \- " Waylon breathes heavy, _"He's dead, he's dead we're all dead_ \- "

" _Drop it_ ," the figure growled, pulling the hammer of the gun back. Waylon sees the crowbar slip from Miles' grasp. _No, no no no, what are you doing?_

"Hands behind your head," the person said. Their voice was heavy with exhaustion. Waylon saw them clutch at their side. _They're injured...Miles can escape if he runs._

Miles complies, fingers intertwining behind his head. He doesn't respond.

"Get on your knees, dick," the figure says, growing bolder and shuffling closer. Their voice is deep, tinged with rage.

Miles lowers himself onto his knees.

" _What are you doing? Get up! Get up, Miles!_ " Waylon screams in his head. He shifts in his spot, and a rock loosens itself and falls from the stone wall.

The figure's head picks up.

Waylon pulls his head back, " _Shit, we're fucked...shit!_ "

Gravel crunches. They're coming closer. Waylon crawls to the left of the wall, finding a wide opening, wide enough for him to crawl through. He chooses to peek through the opening. The figure slowly makes their way through the lot, searching around the parked vehicles. Waylon waits for the figure to turn. When they do, Waylon quickly shuffles into the lot. Heart thumping, he stays low onto his stomach, army crawling to the other side of the lot, trying to keep his movements quiet. He shuffles a few feet, pauses to listen to the figure, shuffles a few feet, pauses, until he's made it to Miles' position. He crawls under a parked pickup truck, a few feet away from Miles' left.

Miles glances at him from the corner of his eye. His chest rose and fell quickly. He shakes his head quickly.

" _What are you doing? Run!_ " Miles' voice is a harsh whisper. Boots crunch against gravel, and the figure quickly came into view.

"Shut _up,_ " they yell, the butt of their pistol connecting with the back of Miles' head. Miles crumples, falling forward onto his hands with a grunt. Waylon covers up a squeak of surprise. The figure grabbed Miles by the collar of his coat, pulling him up and flipping him over. They straddle him.

"Hands next to your head!" They yell, one hand holding the front of Miles' shirt. Miles spreads his arms out, palms up.

"You tell me what you're doing here. _Now_."

 _What do I do?_ The crowbar is too out of reach, Miles' handgun tucked away. Waylon's grip tightens around the branch.

" _You have to be strong about this, Park. Think of your kids. They need their dad to be strong. You can do this_ ," Miles' voice echoes in his head. He needs to be strong. He can't stand by and let Miles get hurt. He didn't deserve that. Despite the dry tinge of fear in his mouth, raking his nerves, he can't lay there and do _nothing_.

" _I can do this...I have to help him_ ," Waylon slides out, quiet. The figure is busy yelling nonsense into Miles' face. Waylon stands, using his staff to bring himself up. He holds the branch in both hands, " _Not heavy enough to kill. We just want to knock them away. Get them off Miles_."

Waylon positions himself behind the figure, holding the branch away, like a makeshift baseball bat. His foot kicked a rock, the rock bouncing off the truck tire.

The figure twists around with a _'Huh?'_

Waylon swings.

 


	15. Get Friendly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> casual conversation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i sat down and hyperfocused on this chapter like. i really loved writing this chapter a lot

The Blackjaw agent went flying. Waylon had crept up behind, and swung that branch as hard as his spindly arms could. Waylon's branch connected with the side of the agent's helmet, wood cracking against plastic. Miles didn't waste any time. He rolled over, bouncing up quickly, drawing his handgun. Just his luck, they get ambushed while Billy is inside tearing Mount Massive apart. If only he'd paid more attention, been smarter, he would've realized there was someone in the trees -

_"Shut up. There's no time for a pity party now."_

Waylon withdraws, stepping back towards the truck Miles saw him crawl under. _Clever guy. No wonder he survived Mount Massive._

The agent took a second to themself, before attempting to stand.

"Nuh - uh - uh," Miles tuts, holding his handgun, tall and proud. He's never so much as brandished it before. Better late than never.

The figure stares. Miles could feel the anger behind the helmet.

" _Drop it,"_ Miles growls.

The agent, reluctantly, tosses the gun to the side. It slid in the dirt.

"That's it...no need to shed any blood here," adrenaline causes his voice to shake, muscles locked, "Survived whatever attacked you in the asylum, right? Don't wanna die after all that, do you?" Miles flicks the gun, "Helmet off."

Miles hears an angry exhale of breath, before the person raises their hands slow, removing their helmet.

What catches Miles first is how pink the person it. Their skin was pale, translucent, veins showing in their neck and around their mouth. Their hair was a bright white, tied back in a small ponytail, shining in the afternoon sun. Between angry, purple eyes, was a large scar that dragged from the middle of their forehead to the bottom right of their jaw, features delicate. They looked in their mid twenties. Miles would bet all the money he had this agent had albinism. Their thin lips were curled into a snarl as they threw their helmet into the gravel.

"That's it, beautiful," Miles says mockingly, "Not too hard, was it?"

The agent spits into the dirt at Miles' shoes.

"Charming," Miles grumbles. He glances at Waylon, who's standing frigid in front of the truck, "Park? Grab that gun."

Without Waylon's gaze moving from the agent, he limps towards the gun, picking it up by the barrel. He steps back towards the vehicle, placing the gun on the hood.

"What's your name?" _This is an interview_ , Miles convinces himself, _just a really fucked up interview. Get them talking. Get friendly_.

"Fuck you," the agent says, wincing. They grab at their side. Miles could now see a red gash through the ripped kevlar and padded body armor.

"That looks bad. You get that from the Swarm?"

The agent's head picked up. _Bingo_.

"We could help you, y'know? All you gotta do is answer some of our questions. You do that, you get to walk away with your life, and all your shit still intact. You could be running around like me," Miles waves his left hand, emphasizing his missing ring finger.

The agent's fiery gaze burns through Miles. They're mad. Real mad. Could be bad. Luckily, Miles in confident in his firing ability. The agent sighs.

"You have your word you'll let me go?" The agent asks. Calmer now, Miles could hear the tinge of an accent he couldn't identify.

"My word is all I have."

Somewhat satisfied with this answer, the stranger squeezes their eyes shut, opening them again to glance between the two men.

"What do you want to know?"

"Your name, for starts," Waylon quips.

"Matheson. Quill Matheson."

"And that's your real name?" Waylon asks.

"Yes, it's my _real_ name. And I would like to know yours. Only fair," the stranger keeps their gaze fixed on Waylon.

Before Waylon can answer, Miles responds, "I'm Mark. This is Parkland," Only a fool gives someone their real name. This agent is a grade A fool, and Miles very much believes that it's their real name.

"Mark what?"

"Blanchett. This is Rigby Parkland. You're with Blackjaw?" Miles motions to a small patch of the Blackjaw emblem in the middle of the kevlar vest Matheson was wearing.

Matheson shrugs, "I always said the name on the trucks was a bad idea, but no one listens to the new guy."

Miles mills over the information he has so far. _The man's name is Quill Matheson. He survived the Walrider. He's new with Blackjaw. He's injured. He's very forthcoming when he's on the other end of the gun._

"You seem like a smart guy, Matheson. How'd you escape?"

"Wasn't easy...no one said anything about an invisible abomination and whackjobs all over the place. If they did, I'd've never come."

"That didn't answer my question," Miles keeps his gun up.

"Oh?" Matheson's voice turned lighter, "Well, if it's so important, I fucking _ran._ I've been hiding out in the woods, waiting for backup."

"How long have you been with Blackjaw?" Waylon asks, leaned against his staff.

"A few months, maybe. I used to be CBRN, back in Sweden. Got picked up by Blackjaw. My squadron was hired by Murkoff before, usually just muscle transferring goods," he shrugs again, "When they asked to secure the facility, I didn't think all this shit was happening."

"But you're from Sweden originally?" Waylon asks.

"Yes."

"What's...what's CBRN?" Waylon glances at Miles for a second, looking back at Matheson.

"Chemical, biological, radiological, and nuclear defense. We dealt with bio weapons and nuclear warfare."

"Transferring chemicals between labs, then?"

Matheson pauses, looking down, "I...I never thought of the contents of the packages too much. Makes sense I was sent here, then. Commader said this could've been a biological disaster if we failed," he shakes his head, "Guess we did, then? We're all fucked."

Miles shakes his head, "It's been contained. You failed your mission. But Project Walrider is no more."

Matheson's face twists, "You two don't look like no agents I've ever seen."

Miles shrugs, "We aren't normal agents."

He ignores the wide stare Waylon shot him. _He thinks we're agents. With Murkoff. Perfect_. Miles takes a second to build a fiction in his head.

"When everything went dark, the heads got worried. They poured too much into this place for us to abandon. We already sent two convoys so far. So they sent us. We're a last resort. It's over," he tucks his gun into his waistband, extending a hand, "Let's take a walk, Matheson."

Matheson takes it without hesitation, wincing, hand on his side. Miles pulls Matheson's arm over his shoulder, supporting him from under his right side, "Easy, pal...there's first aid kits in the trucks, right?"

"Yeah...thank you, Blanchett," Matheson leans into Miles, sounding greatful.

"Don't mention it," he looks at Waylon, who looks ready to break apart at the seems, "Park, can you grab our stuff?"

 

-

 

Waylon picks up Miles' crowbar, and takes Matheson's gun, shoving it into jacket pocket. _This is insane. This guy thinks we're Murkoff agents. This is crazy. This is crazy!_

The three men make their way back uphill.

"So...what happened with you two?" Matheson asks, winded as they climbed up, "Your partner doesn't looks so well, Blanchett."

"Parkland? He got the worst of it in there...this place is a place of Goddamn depravity. If we didn't pour so much fucking money into it, I'd've shut it down forever - a - fucking go," Miles cuts in before Waylon could respond.

" _Let him do the talking_ ," Waylon tells himself, " _Miles knows what he's doing. Trust him_."

"Some crazy motherfucker fucked his leg up real good, took off two of my fingers...for a little while, I thought we wouldn't make it out."

"That's how I felt in there...I saw men killing each other, _eating_ each other... _worse_ ," Matheson shivers in Miles' grip.

It amazes Waylon how easily Miles concocted everything in a few seconds. _My name is Roger...Rigby Parkland. We're both with Murkoff. I got the worst of it._ Waylon repeats this lie in his head as if it's the truth.

When they make it up the hill, Matheson grunts, "Ah, our commander had the keys to our convoy, but we can break the windows."

"Where's he now?" Waylon asks, and he feels like an idiot as soon as it leaves his mouth, "Oh. Right," _Dead. Dead, like all the others._

"Your partner needs some well deserved sick time," Matheson flashes a smile over his shoulder. Waylon blushes with embarrassment.

"We all do seems like," Miles says.

They make it past the asylum, into the courtyard.

"I still can't believe I'm the only one who escaped," Matheson says quietly, "That...that _thing_ ripped everyone apart - "

"Shush, it's all over," Miles says, helping him towards the convoys. He helps Matheson lean against the side of the convoy. He holds his hand out to Waylon, who hands him the crowbar. Miles pulls his arm back, crowbar connecting with the glass of the front driver's side door with incredible force. The glass explodes. Matheson swears loudly.

That makes Waylon sweat. _He might find out, he might realize -_

"One second, Matheson," Miles pauses, looking at the entrance of the asylum, before pulling himself through the now open window.

Matheson looks at Waylon, "How long you've been with Murkoff, Parkland?"

Waylon shakes his head, huffing nervously, "Uh...oh, a few years. Not my first rodeo with shit like this, definitely."

Matheson nods his head, believing this thin lie. Waylon almost sighs in relief.

The van shakes, and there's a crunch of metal. Miles pops out from the back of the van, twin doors popping open. In his hand, he holds a clear white kit with a red cross on the front.

"Got it!" Miles says in triumph. He motions for the two to join him. Matheson takes a seat in the back, Waylon standing nearby against another convoy. Miles pulls his pen and notepad from his pocket, throwing it to Waylon, who catches it. Waylon leans his staff down.

"We're gonna get you cleaned up, alright?" Miles says, pulling on a pair of sterilized gloves, "While I do that, you tell your story to Parkland here. Don't leave any details out."

Matheson is almost _too_ forthcoming. Waylon jots everything down from what Matheson said in the parking lot quickly, before switching to a clean page and writing down Matheson's story. He and his squad were hired to contain the Swarm - and Wernicke.

"Where's Wernicke now?" Matheson asks, interrupting his own tale.

"Dead, unfortunately. Patients killed him. Sad way to go," Miles says, applying alcohol to sterilize Matheson's wound. Matheson hisses in pain, before continuing.

Matheson and his squad killed a few crazed patients trying to kill them, stumbling upon corpses and depravity, before heading down into the labs through a security door from the back area of the asylum. He was told to stay put and watch their backs as they secured Wernicke. He heard screaming, so he ran down, and saw _nothing_ tearing everyone apart.

"There was so much fucking _blood_...I thought I would have died too."

The Swarm threw pieces of shrapnel, and it luckily just grazed Matheson. He ran, running through a checkpoint. In panic, he ran into the woods in the back, and passed out from blood loss. He came to almost a day later, and laid there for a few more hours, before he passed out again. He came to when he heard shuffling near the parking lot, which was Waylon and Miles.

"And that's all she wrote," Matheson finished. Miles wiped away dried blood, bringing a sterilized needle and thread up.

"This'll hurt," Miles mutters, starting to pierce skin.

Waylon is fixed on the gruesome act, Miles' hands deftly sewing up the red gash in Matheson's side. He's calm and focused, Matheson biting down on his own glove, yells muffled.

"You're doing great, Quill, almost done," Miles says in encouragement. Miles finishes quickly, snapping the thread, "See? Not so bad."

Matheson breathes a sigh of relief, "Thank you...my squad would talk about you company shills. They say you're all pure evil, but I don't think you're so bad...well, at least you two aren't."

"How old are you, Matheson?" Waylon asks him.

"Twenty four," Matheson responds, rolling his shoulders.

Waylon nods, jotting down his age. This young man is lucky to be alive. He's got a second chance in life. Hopefully, he learns his lesson and leaves Blackjaw, goes back to Sweden. Leaves Murkoff behind.

"It's not infected, thankfully, so you'll be fine," Miles says, stripping off his gloves, "Just don't do any heaving lifting for a while, alright?"

Matheson stands, holding his hand out, "I can't believe this, thank you."

Miles shakes his hand, "Don't mention it," he pulls Matheson in close. Waylon can barely hear him, "Listen. What happened here? You don't know anything. You'll get a big bonus in the mail soon enough."

Matheson cocks his head, "What happened here again?"

Miles cracks a grin, giving Matheson a friendly pat on the arm, "Ah, but one more thing. For our report," Miles takes out his camera, "Smile for me?"

Matheson hesitates for a second, before cracking a small, toothy smile. Miles snaps the photo, quickly tucking his camera back into his pocket.

"Fantastic. Thank you, Matheson. Good luck to you."

"Thank you, sir."

Before Waylon can blink, Miles grabs Matheson by the front of his kevlar vest. He pulls him forward, headbutting Matheson, the space between his brows connection with the bridge of Matheson's nose. Matheson groans, and crumples into a pile onto the cobblestone. Waylon sees blood pour from Matheson's nose.

Miles matches Waylon's gaze, looking as terrified as Waylon felt.

"Let's fucking get out of here."


	16. Home Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The truth is like a flame. Sometimes the truth hurts more. But it cleanses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter is a little longer than usual, mostly hanging on just the one instead of the other, but it's getting there

Miles drags Matheson's body into the open Blackjaw van, shutting the doors. Matheson was a nice kid, _too_ nice, and too trusting to be working with a bunch of jackoffs like Blackjaw, working for soulless assholes in Murkoff. Miles feels bad about having to knock Matheson out - but that was the only option.

"What the fuck did you _do_? Is he _dead_?" Waylon demanded, frightened and skittish.

"No, no he'll be fine, I just knocked him out - " Miles looks up, seeing Billy watching from the top of the van Miles had broken into. He's smiling, head cocked.

 _"Oh my God_ \- " Waylon grasps the pen and notepad in his hands tight.

" _Waylon_ ," Miles says, stepping into Waylon's personal space, grabbing his coat, "He's _alive_ , he's _fine_. He'd want to come with us...no way he'd believe we'd come back here with help if we told him to wait. People are coming - and they will come - they'll find him. He'll be fine." _He'll be fine_. He repeats this a few times, until Waylon stops shaking, until his breathing stops being short. Miles almost smiles in relief.

"You were good at playing the part, though. I think he was being a lot friendlier with you than me, in the beginning," as soon as Miles says this, a blush appears on Waylon's cheeks. He looks away with a muttered ' _Thank you_.'

"I'm being serious, Waylon. Who knows what would have happened to me if you didn't step in...pretty quick thinking. I want to thank you for that," Miles lets his gratefulness seep through, letting Waylon go.

"It's...I couldn't let him _shoot_ you," Waylon says, picking up his staff.

"He saved your life, Miles?" Billy asks, floating down, standing next to Waylon, mouth curled into a grin.

"Don't be so modest, Park. You have a pretty good arm, sent that dick flying," Miles gave Waylon a light punch in the arm.

"I used to play baseball as a kid," Waylon says, sinking into his coat.

"God, I can't believe he thought we were with Murkoff....gave us a little extra info too. Couldn't have worked out any fuckin' better," Mile's face hurt from smiling, and Waylon let a small smile slip.

"I just hope I wrote everything down correctly," Waylon says.

"I'm sure it's just fine, Park...I thought the jig was up when I asked him for the photo," Miles lets out a small giggle, prompting a louder laugh from Waylon.

"He was... _so_ pale, oh my _God_ ," Waylon laughs, grin wider.

They laugh about the absurdity of the situation. It was utterly, wholly, unthinkably ridiculous, and it wrapped itself around Miles' gut and pulled out the tension that built up over the last few hours. Their venture into Mount Massive couldn't have yielded better results, either. They got their missing evidence, with an extra interview to top everything off. It was fantastic. Waylon looks better, too. He doesn't look as strung out as he did inside.

"Everything is destroyed, Miles. They won't be able to recover anything," Billy says, "Can you tell me what happened out here while I was gone? It seemed like a lot of fun," Billy's voice is light and airy, reflecting the positive mood between the three.

"In the car, Billy, we'll tell you all about it. Let's get the _fuck_ out of here."

 

-

 

Miles lets the radio blast full volume. It took them a bit to find the exact station to interact with Billy clearly, but after a few minutes they found a sweet spot. They retold the story of Matheson, shared what they learned so far. Billy listened intently.

"He was beautiful," Billy says, layered voice static, "Looked strange, but beautiful."

"Yeah, a shame to waste those good looks on being a hired gun," Miles says, cruising down the main highway back into town, "Could've been a model - had a good sense of humor, too. What a shame."

"I would like to thank you, Waylon. For watching over Miles while I...'cleaned house.'"

Waylon blushes, staring out the window, "I...it was the right thing to do. He had a gun, and I had the element of surprise..." _if only I fought that hard in Mount Massive. Maybe all those things wouldn't have happened if I had a spine._

"You're humble. I like that," Billy says.

Waylon shrinks into his coat.

They make small talk for the next 4 hours. Waylon, while he's open about his own home life, finds Miles and Billy to be closed off. They duck and weave under his questions, avoiding direct answers and changing the subjects quickly. Waylon adapts, instead asking about Miles' life as a journalist.

"I've traveled around before. I chased down the stories people didn't want to hear, went through interviews with drug lords, had my life threatened."

"Ever think about leaving it behind? Getting a safer job?"

"Fuck no. If I did, who else would report on the worst humanity had to offer? People deserve to know the truth, even if it's cold and hard and beats you to an inch of your life in a dark alley."

The roll through town. Waylon navigates Miles to their neighborhood. Waylon counts the passerby - 36 - and some of the buildings - 17. The closer they get to Waylon's home, Waylon notices Miles' grip on the steering wheel tightens.

"Are you OK, Miles?" Waylon pulls his good leg up, holding it to his chest.

"I'm fine. Excited to finally sit down and run through everything together." _Together_.

"We make a pretty good team," Billy quips from the radio.

Waylon's chest flutters. _A pretty good team, huh?_ He wishes they could spend more time getting to know each other, but that wasn't feasible. They would study their evidence, organize it, post it, and then Miles would disappear. Waylon's family would be safe. Murkoff would be humiliated. Waylon's chest sinks thinking he'll never see Miles, or speak to Billy, again. It saddened Waylon. There was a shared bond, born from pain that they both faced. Waylon wished there could be another way.

They pull up to the house. It's dusk now, evening creeping up the blue sky, turning it purple. When they park in the driveway, the front door is thrown open, and Ricky and Ben rush down the porch steps. Waylon throws open the car door, his sons almost knocking him over. Ricky's head comes up to the bottom of his chest, Ben just a head shorter.

"Dad! You were gone all day," Ben groans. He attempts to climb up Waylon, but Waylon doubles over.

"No, no climbing, Ben, Daddy's leg is hurtin' real bad," Waylon grunts. Ricky pulls Waylon down by the collar of his coat.

"Yuck, you still stink, Dad," he says. Waylon laughs, kissing Ricky's cheek and the top of Ben's head. He held his boys tight, eyes shut, afraid to let go.

"I love you boys, you know that?"

The boys laugh at him, complaining that he needs to take a bath.

Waylon looks up, and Miles is staring at him. His grin is strained. Before Waylon can ask him what's wrong, he notices Lisa walking down the porch steps, Frank standing in the doorway. Her face had the same strained grin as Miles did, Frank's expression dark. Waylon lets go of his sons, staring down at them. He removes the binder from under his shirt, handing it to the boys.

"Why don't you two do me a favor, give this to Mr. Upshur here and help him into the house. I bet he would be real interested in your Lego figures you guys worked so hard on."

The boys nod in agreement, rushing over the Miles. They wave the binder at him, grabbing at his hands, both gasping in awe of his missing fingers. Miles shoots Waylon an honest smile before the boys drag him into the house, moving past Frank and Lisa. Frank descends down the porch, Waylon limping towards them, building his apology.

"Frank, I'm so _sorry_ Miles did that to you. I should have said something _before_ we left - "

" _Stop_ , Waylon," Frank says, holding a hand up, "Forget it. We need to talk."

Worried now, Waylon wrings his hands.

"What happened?" Had they been threatened while he was gone? Did someone show up? Maybe it was Miles, Lisa finally putting her foot down and telling Waylon he had to go?

Lisa grabs his hand, grip tight, palm clammy.

 

-

 

After Miles had tucked all the evidence into the mattress in the basement, and changed his clothes, the boys were almost desperate to show him their rooms. Ben insisted on them hanging out in his room.

"These are the funniest boys I've ever met," Billy says, watching Ricky and Ben pulls out intricately built figures and towns to show off to Miles. Miles is impressed. They're crafted with care, kept together with a childish love. He's happy that these boys have a good family.

"I like the Star Wars ones," Ricky says, pulling out a finely built Millennium Falcon.

"And I like Minecraft," Ben says, "But I had to take them apart when we moved...can you help me build them, Mr. Upshur?"

"OK, but you're going to have to show me, I never had Legos as a kid," Miles says. He was sitting next to the doorway, on the carpet. Ben's room was messy, clothes and toys scattered.

"You've never played with _Legos_ before?!" Ben yells, clutching his chest in shock. Billy laughs, resting cross - legged on Ben's bed.

"No, I had Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle action figures, but that was pretty much it," _The only thing I had, really, when Mom wasn't busy feeding her drinking habits or new boyfriends_. Miles watches Ricky cross the room, sitting next to Miles. They both watch Ben dig under his bed. Ricky then looks at Miles.

"Are you _dead_ , mister?" Ricky asks him, face blank.

Miles almost laughs at the seriousness in the boy's voice voice, "Do I _look_ dead?"

"I don't know what a dead person looks like, but dead people don't always know they're dead," Ricky says, squinting.

"He's not dead, _dummy_!" Ben yells from under his bed, pulling out a box with a green top, "Don't listen to him, he's crazy!"

"I'm not crazy! You believe in ghosts, don't you mister?" Ricky asks, sitting up on his knees.

"I do," Miles says, looking at Billy, "Ghosts are real, seen one myself."

"Woooow," Ricky says in awe, "Where? What was it like? Did you - "

"He doesn't want to hear that bunk, Rick," Ben says, walking over with his box. It looked large in his skinny arms.

"I'm happy to talk about the ghost I saw, if you wanna hear."

Ricky nods his head so fast Miles thought it would fly off. Ben groans, putting down his box, sitting on the other side of Miles. Billy shifts from Ben's bed to sit between the boys.

Miles thinks, for a second, building the fiction in his brain.

"So...I'm a journalist, which means I write for newspapers and magazines. I was investigating an abandoned asylum."

Ricky leans in, fascinated, while Ben leans his cheek against his palm.

"It was completely empty, trash everywhere. I heard this laugh, in one of the abandoned patient rooms. In there...I saw a figure that scared the daylights out of me," Miles shakes his head, faking a shiver, "He was dressed in all black, eyes hollow and black, teeth in the widest Cheshire grin I've _ever_ seen."

Ricky gasps, hand flying to his mouth, "What did you do?" he asks.

"I got so scared, I dropped my flashlight and ran!"

"You didn't even talk to him?" Ben asks.

"Nope. I dipped as soon as I saw that wicked grin," he looks at Billy, who's grin stretched from ear to ear.

"Did you ever go back?" Ben sits back on his hands.

"No...I'm too scared to go back. First time I ever saw a ghost. Hopefully it's my last."

"I've never seen a ghost before. Was he see - through?" Ricky asks him.

"No, he was solid - "

Outside, Miles heard a loud _thump_. Billy picks his head up. He and Miles lock eyes. Miles jerks his head. _Go check it out_. Billy breaks apart, sliding under the door.

"What was that?" Ben says, standing, going to walk out his bedroom door.

"Wait wait _wait_ \- " Miles holds an arm out, blocking Ben's legs, "Your parents are talking. Let's just leave them alone for now. Did you two have dinner?"

"We did, Uncle Frank ordered pizza," Ricky says. He doesn't move from his spot.

"There an ice cream place nearby?"

"Yeah, right across the road from our school," Ricky says.

"How about I go ask your parents to take you out for ice cream, huh?"

"Frank said no ice cream," Ben picks up his box.

"Well, I'm not Frank."

Billy reappears, face grim, "They're in the backyard. Waylon's crying. It's bad."

Miles sighs, looking down, blinking hard. _Shit_. He feels like a guilty asshole, but it had to be done. Waylon had to know.

"You guys stay here," Miles says, standing, "I'll go ask them."

The boys nod, muttering acknowledgments. Miles walks out of the room, closing the door behind. Billy rests at the top of the stairs.

"It's bad, Miles, it's very bad," he says, "There's so much hurt back there."

Miles descends the stairs. He could see the Parks and Frank out in the backyard through the kitchen window above the sink. Their voices were muffled, but it looked as heated as Miles could've imagined it would have been. Miles heads left, through a door leading outside. As soon as he opens the door, he can hear Waylon's voice, rasping and raw, shaking.

".....while they were _beating_ me and _raping_ me, you were busy _fucking_ my _wife!_ "

Billy stands awkwardly in the grass. The backyard was less a backyard, more a wide open field with trees marking the property line. Miles rounds the house, seeing the three crowded together. Waylon was, in every aspect of the phrase, a mess. His face was red, eyes wet, wet stains down his cheeks, mouth twisted in anger. _Not anger. Betrayal_.

"Waylon, I didn't - "Lisa starts.

"Did I do something _wrong_?" Waylon's voice cracked. He looked ready to collapse, "Did I not _love_ you enough...was I not _enough_ for you?" Waylon's hands grab at his hair, pulling.

"Baby, don't do that," Lisa tries to pulls his hands away. Waylon jerks his body away.

" _Don't touch me_!" Waylon stumbles, falling to his knees. He slumps forward, sobs piercing the cold evening air. He presses his forehead to the dirt, hands clenched in the grass. Lisa falls with him, crying, begging him to forgive her.

Miles feels like a ghost, watching voyeuristically at a crumbling life. Miles wishes he never stayed so long at the Park house. _I should've left as soon as I got my notes back - went back to Mount Massive myself. It would have saved Waylon all this pain._ But would anything have really ended differently? They would've told him soon enough, it seemed like. Miles just pushed that date closer.

Frank looks up, locking eyes with Miles. Miles turns his head, walking back into the house. A few seconds later, Frank enters the kitchen, slamming the door.

"Are you _happy_?" Frank growls through gritted teeth. His chest is puffed, arms flexing. He's looking for a fight. Miles won't give him one. Billy appears behind Frank, hands clasped together, covering his mouth.

"Doesn't matter if I'm happy or not. He deserved to know. From _you,_ " he takes Frank's keys from the kitchen table, "I'm taking the boys out to ice cream. We'll be back in an hour. Maybe longer."

Through the sound of his pulse, Miles could hear Frank's angry breathing as he walked back upstairs.

 

-

 

Miles lets the boys order whatever they wanted from the sundae bar. It was a small, quant mom - and - pop place, decor and aesthetic stuck in the 50's. Ricky ordered a chocolate milkshake, topped ~~~~with whipped cream and a cherry, and Ben ordered a banana split sundae. Miles grabs a grape soda pop from an open cooler. As he pays with his card, the cashier - the owner, a woman in her 60's, asks him what happened to his hands. Miles looks down, flexing his fingers.

"Car accident. I'd rather not talk about it."

The woman nods, apologizing. The boys thank Miles as they slide into a red booth, Ricky and Ben taking one side, Miles taking the other.

"This place is nice," Billy says, darting around the establishment. Miles nods wordlessly, watching the boys with a close eye. Ben digs into his ice cream as soon as he sits down. Ricky sips thoughtfully on his milkshake. While Ben is younger, more energetic, Ricky reminds Miles more of Waylon. Quiet, thoughtful, inquisitive, sandy hair and light eyes to match.

"So...Mister _Upshur_ ," Ricky says through sips, "You lost your fingers in a car accident?"

"Yeah. I did. Hurt a lot, but I recovered quickly," talking to the boys, it didn't feel like lying. It felt like protecting them from the dangers of reality. The first time Miles has ever given a shit about keeping the truth away.

Ricky narrows his eyes, " _Interesting_."

Ben finishes his sundae with a burp, spoon rattling in the empty bowl, "Is our dad gonna be OK?"

Miles smooths a tongue over his teeth. _Don't lie to them. Don't lie to them about their dad._

"He'll be OK. He has a family who loves him," Miles speaks slow, voice calm.

"He was gone for a long time - " Ricky starts

" _Two_ months!" Ben interjects.

"It was only supposed to be one month. Now he's...different," Ricky rests his chin down onto the table.

"He's different, yeah," taking a deep breath, he eases his answer out, "Your dad went through something very, very terrible, and he'll need time to get over that," Miles slouches in his seat, "But he loves you. That will never change. He'll always love you."

"Did your dad love you?" Ben asks.

Miles blinks, jaw clenching, "My dad..." _was a violent, intolerant, Son of a Bitch_ , "Was busy running around our town, doing whatever he wanted. Barely gave me the time of day. I saw him once every few months, if I was lucky," Miles keeps his true feelings close. _Children shouldn't be exposed to adult problems and behaviors._

Miles pops open his soda, taking a quick sip, "But your dad loves you. That's what's important."

Ricky nods thoughtfully. Ben plays with his hands.

"Can we go back home?" Ben asks.

Miles looks at the clock on the wall. They've been out for an hour already.

"Anything you want to do?" Miles asks in an attempt to stall.

"I just wanna see my dad," Ben says, voice quiet.

Miles nods, and hopes that the Parks calmed down enough to spare the boys the drama.

 


	17. You'll Be OK

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heartbreak

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for mentions of previous sexual assault and previous childhood physical abuse

When Frank and Lisa pulled him into the backyard, Waylon couldn't imagine the horrible trainwreck coming his way.

" _Frank and I...we've been seeing each other."_

Waylon wishes he died in Mount Massive. He wishes Blair just beat his head in the moment he came back into the server room, smashed and smeared his brain matter across his desk. He would have at least died knowing that his wife loved him. He doesn't feel that love now.

That love they had, that pure, warm, connecting love turned into a hunk of lava, sluggish and and burning in agony. It hurts. It _hurts_. It runs through his body like glass shards, flowing through his heart, cutting him open from the inside.

Frank stands off to the side, arms crossed, eyes down. His body language says _'I'm guilty_ ,' his words say _'This is your wife's fault_.' Waylon's stomach churns.

"How could you," Waylon wants to throw up. He still looks like a disgusting shit from the asylum, tears and snot falling down his face. He couldn't care less about the mess he was.

Frank had always been a player, ever since college. Waylon couldn't count the number of girls he'd seen hanging on Frank's arm. He never had any boundaries with girls, didn't care if they were in relationships or not. He always had some sort of drama in his life. Waylon thought Frank matured out of that phase of his life.

Impulsively, Waylon pushes Frank by his chest. It's a weak push, and doesn't go far, Frank barely moving, barely responding, " _How could you do this to me?_ I let you into my _home_ , around my _kids_."

Frank can't meet his eye. Waylon looks at Lisa. Her lips are pursed, eyes shining. Waylon's blood runs cold.

"Oh my _God_ \- " he shakes his head, "Are they even _mine_?"

Lisa lets out a cry, "They're yours, Waylon, _please_ , we didn't when I got pregnant - "

"How long has this been going on?" Waylon demands. His chest is heavy.

"It's been on - and - off. A few years," Frank's voice is barely audible, "Since college."

Waylon digs the heel of his palms into his eyes. The whole time. The _whole_ time they've been together. Fourteen years. Ten years married. Two beautiful kids. All of that, flushed down the drain. For _what_?

"So the whole time I was gone - at that _fucking_ asylum - you were sleeping with him?"

Frank shakes his head, "Not the whole time." Lisa looks down at her shoes.

 _That's why he's here. She called him. I was going to be gone, and she was going to have her own way._ The coil of stress and disgust tightening in Waylon's gut finally snapped, releasing every feeling he had, every bad memory, every ghost that haunted him. Waylon couldn't stop the flood.

"I've been _nothing_ but _loyal_ to you - _fourteen years of my life I've given you_! You were so _fucking_ worried about me sleeping around, what did you tell me? When we first started dating? ' _Waylon, I never want to hear that you brought a guy or girl home. If I do, I'll have Frank beat you up.'_ What a joke! You were _always_ fucking worried about me cheating on you, and look what fucking happened! I was gone - supporting _our_ family - " Waylon can't stop shaking, voice becoming louder and louder, voice straining to keep up, "Do you know what they _did_ to me in there? They fucking tortured me! I was watching people get slaughtered in there! I'll never get over what happened - " Waylon looks at Frank, and it hurts that he can't meet his eye.

"And while they were _beating_ me and _raping_ me, you were busy _fucking my wife_!"

The world closes in on Waylon. He feels numb, far away, cold air turning heavy, suffocating him.

"Waylon, I didn't - "

Miles cuts Lisa off, "Did I do something wrong?" he can't fight how broken he sounds, "Did I not love you enough...was I not enough for you?" Waylon pulls at his hair.

"Baby, don't do that - "

Waylon feels Lisa's hands grab his wrist. They burn and cut his skin, rip into his flesh. Waylon jerks away.

_"Don't touch me!" I can't, I can't, I can't. Why do you hate me? Why did you do this? What did I do?_

Waylon's legs give out. He falls into the wet grass, kneeling, letting a broken cry escape him.

 

  
-

 

  
Laying on his back, Waylon doesn't know how long he stayed in the backyard. Long enough that the world turned colder, darker, stars peeking out. _A lot more stars out in the Colorado countryside than there were in the Arizona cities._ Waylon doesn't want to get up. Lisa had gone inside a long while ago, when Waylon wouldn't respond or react to her. _She doesn't care about me. Our family means nothing to her. It's meant nothing for years. I wish I was dead. Anything would be better than this._

He regretted yelling, screaming. That got him nowhere. He felt evil, vile, blaming them for things that weren't in their control. He closes his eyes.

" _You're pathetic_ ," a voice in Waylon's head says, " _Worse, you're worthless_."

"Dad?" Ben's voice is quiet, distant

Waylon can't move. _Don't look at me. Go inside._

"Daddy?" Ben calls again, louder.

Waylon sits up, hands resting on his thighs. Ben and Ricky are staring at him from the edge of the house. Overwhelmed, a tear rolls down Waylon's cheek. _They don't deserve a cowardly father like me._

Ben runs over, sliding onto his knees and hugging Waylon with skinny arms. Waylon freezes. _I don't deserve this. I don't._

Waylon buries his head into Ben's shoulder, heaving a loud sob. He tightens the hug around his son.

"I love you," Waylon says, "I love you." _Don't hate me. Please don't hate me._

Ben cries into his shoulder. Waylon feels a second pair of arms wrap around him, Ricky pressing his face into the top of Waylon's head.

"It's alright, Dad," Ricky says in a strained whisper, "You'll be OK."

Waylon's cries grow louder.

 

  
-

 

  
Miles flushes the toilet, buckling himself back up. He turns the sink on, scrubbing his hands. When he dries them off, he touches the exposed bone of his fingers. They're bleached white, like they were picked clean by scavengers, smoothed over to hide the marrow inside. He has multiple small scars from cuts over his fingers and palms, the back of his hands. _Broken glass and people trying to stab you will do that to a guy._ Miles looks up into the mirror.

 _I probably smell like a barn_ , Miles thinks. He took the time to wash the blood from his face and chest before, but hadn't thought of taking a shower. That was the last thing on his mind. His beard is growing back - first time he shaved in a few months was when he left for Colorado. He drags his fingers over the stubble. He looks sickly, skin not as saturated. He has thin scars over his nose, lips, and chin, one cutting into the hair of his left eyebrow, pale and healed over. He meets his reflection's gaze. Foggy, colorless eyes stare back. Miles breathes sharply.

"What're you looking at?" He mutters to the reflection. The reflection's lips quirk into a smile.

"What the fuck are you smiling at?" Miles asks, irritation building. _Stop looking at it, idiot, it's just your fucking reflection_. He grits his teeth, pushing himself from the sink. He throws the door open.

Ricky is staring at him, back pressed against the basement door.

"Hey, Rick," Miles says, pushing down his irritation, "What's going on?"

"Something's wrong with Dad," he says. Miles can see that his eyes are red, nose sniffling. Miles kneels down, Ricky standing tall.

"What happened? Is he hurt?" Miles asks.

Ricky shakes his head, "I don't think so. He's laying in the backyard. He won't come inside."

Miles stands, patting Ricky on the shoulder, "I'll get him. Don't worry, Rick."

Ricky doesn't say anything as Miles walks through the kitchen, out the door.

Billy is standing out in the field, watching Waylon. Miles sees Ben laying in the grass, hands on his stomach, Waylon laying next to him.

"How's he been, Billy?" Miles asks, quiet.

Billy sighs, "Not well. This was devastating," Billy wrings his hands, "Lisa and Frank are in the Lisa's office, talking. They're angry," he looks at Miles, "You should talk to him."

"He doesn't look in a talking mood," Miles mutters, shoving his hands into his pockets.

"You're the only one around he can talk to, Miles," Billy says plainly, "The other two betrayed him, the children are too young to understand...he has no one here. Besides us. Besides _you_."

Miles looks back at the two Parks on the ground, "You think he trusts me, Billy?"

"Yes," Billy replies automatically, "He does."

Miles takes a deep breath, walking to Waylon and Ben. He stands over Ben, bright moonlight casting a blue shadow.

"Can I talk to your dad, Ben? Alone?"

Ben sniffs, sitting up with a quick nod of his head. He runs back inside, shooting the two a quick and worried look, before disappearing around the house.

Miles takes Ben's spot, laying down on the ground next to Waylon. The ground is frigid and wet, and Miles shivers. He stares up at the stars. Small white lights dotted around a bright and shining silver moon, not a cloud in sight against a dark navy sky.

"Beautiful night," Miles says, breaking the silence, "Can't get a view like this in the city."

No response.

"I took the boys out for ice cream," Miles folds his hands behind his head, "Ben can really eat. He had like this big banana split...finished it in like five minutes. He's a funny kid - wait, who's older? Ricky or Ben?"

A beat, then a hoarse answer, "Ricky. He's twelve. Ben's ten."

Miles turns his head. Waylon blinks, "Ben likes to tell strangers he's older."

Miles smiles, "You got any siblings, Park?"

While he doesn't look any happier, Waylon closes his eyes in contentment. _Good, don't think about the bad shit right now_. "A sister. She's nine years younger than me, lives out in San Francisco, going to school."

"So how old are you?"

"Thirty,"

"That makes her twenty - one," Miles whistles, "Bet she's living the high life of a college student, right?"

"Oh yeah, she parties every day like the world is ending the next. I don't see her much, but I get a call from her every few weeks. She wants me to bring the boys down during winter break to visit. You have any siblings?"

"Only child," _Surprising, since my mom took so many men home with her_. Miles stares back at the stars.

"Sounds lonely."

"It was," _Nobody was looking out for me._

Waylon takes a deep breath, "You ever married?"

Miles laughs, "No, no one would put up with me for more than a few months at a time. I was better at being a fuck - buddy than a stable partner," Most of the men Miles' dated came from parties, rough drunken trysts, or friends looking for a good time. Miles had always hoped that these relationships would last longer than they did, but you can't expect much from one built on only physical attraction. That leads to disaster, as Miles learned the hard way.

Waylon sits up. He looks like Hell. Disheveled, clothes crumpled and dirty. He rubs at his bad leg. Miles can see dried blood peeking out from over his collar. It looks old and dark.

"You look like shit, Park," Miles says, sitting up on his elbows, "You haven't showered yet?"

Waylon tenses, "No."

Finding Waylon's reaction strange, Miles sits up fully, crossing one leg over his other, "Why? You scared of the water?"

Waylon shakes his head, face turned away, hidden in shadow. His hands fist into the grass.

"Afraid something will happen to you in there?"

"It's stupid," Waylon's voice is low.

"It's not stupid. Whatever it is, it's not stupid," Miles places a hand on Waylon's shoulder, "I promise you, it's not."

Miles hears Waylon breathe sharp. His head turns. His expression is conflicted, mouth closing, opening, closing again. Waylon's shoulders tremble. He looks down.

 _Damn it._ Miles has an inkling, the barest of information on what happened to Waylon. Billy said it when they first met in the garage, Waylon screaming it an hour ago. But if Miles can't get Waylon to open up, he'll help him any way he can. He won't let Waylon fall into a pit of self - hatred and panic, not by himself. He needs someone to help him up, not watch him fall.

Miles stands up, "Let's go, Park, c'mon."

"What?"

Miles holds his hands out, "C'mon, let's go."

"Where?"

"To get you cleaned up," he flexes his hands, edging Waylon into coming with him. Waylon doesn't move.

"What? Don't you trust me?" Miles says to him.

There's a long pause. Miles sees moonlight glint off of Waylon's wet eyes. Slowly, two shaking hands are raised, meeting Miles'. Waylon's hands are cold. Miles hauls Waylon up to his feet.

"There we go," Miles grunts.

Miles remembers back when he was in high school, coming home to his mom in a drunken stupor. He would help her into the bathroom, letting the shower run for her, clean up her throwup and bottles in the living room. She wouldn't thank him, just throw her dirty clothes into a hamper and shut her bedroom door. Those were on good days. On bad days, she'd be violent, break everything she could get her hands on, Miles included. _At least I can help Waylon into the shower without expecting a beating._

Waylon doesn't say anything as Miles helps him into the house, through the kitchen. Ben and Ricky are sitting at the kitchen table. Miles gives them a smile and a wink. _See? Your dad's fine._ The boys give him a thumbs up.

"There's a bathroom upstairs?" Miles asks them, quiet.

"Mom and Dad's room," Ricky says. Miles gives him a thumbs up in thanks, helping Waylon up the staircase.

Waylon's bedroom is different when Miles is completely awake. It's a calm room, white walls with worn wood furniture, a bed in the middle with gold sheets. Miles sits Waylon on the bed, bending down to tug off Waylon's hiking boots. Waylon doesn't stop him, doesn't react. When he lived with his mom, this was commonplace, Miles helping her out of heels and boots after a night out on the town. When Waylon's muddy boots are off, Miles stands, opening the white bathroom door, pushing it open and flicking the light on.

Pale yellow light fixtures gave the bathroom a warm look. The bathroom is small and white, sink and toilet on the left side. A small square window is covered by white lace curtains. Miles whistles when he see's a bathtub with four bronze lion's feet on the right. _Don't see many of those nowadays_ , Miles thinks to himself. The bath came up to the bottom of Miles' calves, white porcelain matching the rest of the bathroom. A metal pipe dragged from the bottom of the floor to the ceiling, a silver showerhead hanging. There's no shower curtain, random bottles and soaps scattered. Miles pulls his sleeve up, turning the left knob. The shower turns on with a squeak of the pipes. Miles holds his hand there until the water runs warm, stepping back into the doorway.

"Water's warm," Miles says, wiping his hand on his coat.

Waylon's eyes are fixed down at the floor, unmoving. Behind him, Billy is standing by the window, watching. Miles gently pats Waylon on the shoulder.

"Up we go," he says, dropping his hand to Waylon's arm, pulling him up. Waylon doesn't resist, eyes still staring at the floor. Miles pushes him into the bathroom. He shuts the door. When he turns, Billy is wringing his hands.

Miles heaves a sigh, sitting on the edge of the bed.

 


	18. Icy Water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Can infidelity ever really be forgiven?
> 
> TW for mentions of previous assaults and suicide

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay :( I've been preoccupied with some side projects, so sorry if this seems a bit short :(

As soon as Miles closed the door, Waylon expected it to be throw open again. He tenses, waiting. One minute, two minutes, three, four minutes pass before Waylon's nerves settle, and he let himself focus on the shower. _They're all probably dead anyway, stabbed and mutilated and ripped apart and worse...why do I still expect to see them come through the door?_

It felt like every other second, he was thinking about Mount Massive. The beatings he suffered daily, the way they cut his skin and dug their nails into him, the laughing, the -

Waylon shakes his head, pulling at his hair. _That's enough, stop it._

Besides worthless, Waylon also feels embarrassed. Miles escorted him up the stairs, took his fucking _boots_ off, for Hell's sake. Talked to him. Didn't judge him. Almost made him forget the aching in his chest and the migraine behind his eyes. And Miles didn't ask for _anything_.

 _Lisa still didn't buy a curtain_ , Waylon thinks, numbly stepping into the running shower. The water runs over his head, smoothing down his hair, quickly seeping into his clothes, the fabric's weight grounding him. He stands still, arms at his sides. It's warm. The water in the showers at the asylum were always cold, and stung his skin raw, ripped deep into his bruises.

He tries to count the tiles on the wall. He loses track at 54, tears blurring his vision. He wipes his eyes. Every inch of his body aches.

"I'm pathetic," Waylon says, his voice hollow as it bounces off the tiled floors and walls, "I'm pathetic," _If I wasn't, I wouldn't be stuck in this mess. I wouldn't know my wife hated me._ He digs the heels of his palms into his forehead, screwing his eyes shut _. I deserve this. I deserve everything that happened to me._

The water collecting in the bath is dark with dirt and debris as it swirls down the shower drain. He wishes the water would carry him down with it. His left leg throbs, pain thrumming up his thigh. He slides down, sitting in the tub, water bouncing off the heavy canvas of his coat. He curls into himself.

 

-

 

Miles has been sitting in the Park's bedroom for close to two hours, listening and waiting. It was the same with when he lived with his mom - he'd help her into the bathroom, clean up her mess, and wait outside so he'd be right in if he heard her fall. Out of habit was mostly why Miles stayed outside in the bedroom, there was no real need to. But he wanted to make sure that Waylon would be alright. He wonders if Waylon would be alright after he left. Infidelity in a relationship can tear apart a person's self esteem, and their life. Miles had seen it over and over again with his mom, coworkers, people he's interviewed. Given Waylon's current condition, the trauma he's suffered...who knows if this family will ever heal.

"He's been in there a long time," Billy says, sitting against the bathroom door, "You should check on him."

"What for?" Miles bites, "He's a grown man - he's not gonna fall down the Goddamn drain...why? Are you worried?"

Billy pulls his legs up to his chest, holding them, "Yes. He hurts greatly...I'm worried he's lost himself."

"In what?"

"Despair."

Miles remembers reporting on a suicide some years ago. _Gina Renato, 38, mother of 2, loving wife, death by suicide. Cut her wrists open and let herself bleed out in a running bathtub. Years of depression caught up with her._ Miles spoke with the husband. _Devastated, could barely talk._

Driven by the image of Waylon glassy - eyed and bleeding in the water, Miles jumps off the bed, Billy disappearing as soon as his feet touch the floor. The door is unlocked.

As soon as Miles thinks ' _Fuck, what if he's naked?'_ he had thrown the door open. The steam of the room is thin. Instead of Waylon standing nude, or Waylon dead in the tub, he sees a wet lump of brown curled up under the flow of the shower. Expecting the worst, Miles rushes over, grabbing the back of Waylon's coat, pulling.

Waylon let's out a yell, arms flailing.

Miles sighs in relief, " _Fuck_ , Waylon," He shakes Waylon by the shoulders, "What the fuck are you doing?"

Waylon smooths his hair back, staring. He spits water out. Miles watches Waylon's face crinkle, a soft sob escaping him. Waylon digs his palms into his eyes.

 _"It's just you_ ," Waylon sobs, "Fuck, it's just _you,"_ his thin form shudders. Waylon, Miles realizes, is still fully clothed. Two hours he was in here, and the whole time he was just sitting in the tub in the same clothes. Waylon tucks his head down, leaning towards Miles. Miles, out of habit, cradles Waylon's head against his chest, listening to the man cry. The water is ice cold.

"It's me, Waylon, it's just me...it's alright," Miles leans over, shutting the water off. Miles attempted to pull Waylon out of the tub, but Waylon tried to pull himself back down.

"Don't _look_ at me," he croaks out, " _Leave me in here_."

"Don't say that," Miles grunts, pulling Waylon to his feet. He drags Waylon out of the tub, moving him so he's sitting with his back to the outside of the tub. Waylon didn't resist, but stayed limp in his arms. Miles kneels in the puddle Waylon's sopping form left. He grabs Waylon's arms away from his eyes. Everything in Miles yells at him to probe, ask questions. _Who did you think I was? What are you doing? Why are you in the shower in all your clothes? Can't take them off? Why -_

He pushes those thoughts aside. _You're no an animal, Upshur. Have some empathy._

He starts to pull Waylon's coat off. Waylon sucks in a breath, "Wait... _wait_ \- "

Waylon reaches into the pocket of his soggy canvas coat. In his hand, a crumpled yellow wad. Carefully, Waylon unfolds the sticky paper. Whatever was on the paper was unrecognizable, ink bleeding.

"I ruined your picture. Just like I ruin everything else in my life," Waylon's lip quivered.

_That portrait of Billy. Shit, he still had it?_

"I ruined my job...my marriage...your _life_...." Waylon crumpled the wet paper, throwing it weakly across the bathroom, "Everything would be better if I just fucking _died_ back there."

_You want me to fucking die, Miles? Will that make you happy? I'll cut my fucking wrists open, will that make you happy? I'll crash my fucking car into a building - will that make you happy? Stop fucking crying -_

Waylon is staring at him. Miles blinks hard, wiping at his eyes. _Am I crying?_

It started off as a thrum, soft and slow. It quickly picks up, flowing faster with each second that passes. Unadulterated, aggressive, rage. Rage that makes Miles want to tear the house apart, and let it burn. Miles swallows the burning pit in his throat.

Miles lets go of Waylon's coat.

"Get dressed," _Stop shaking, Upshur, stop,_ "I'll be downstairs when you're ready."

 

-

 

Miles stands in the garage.

"So you destroyed everything in the labs?"

"Yes."

Miles had stomped downstairs. He didn't bother going into the basement, heading straight to the garage. He didn't want anyone to see him. Billy asked if he was alright, but Miles brushed these questions off with angry grunts. He didn't want to lose himself in his anger, so he turned his attention to one of the many problems he had at hand.

"Can you destroy the rest of my Jeep?"

Billy appears, tracing a hand over the body of the Jeep, circling it the same way he did his own glass pod in the Engine.

"I can take it apart, but we'll have to scatter the pieces....the woods should be big enough."

Looking around the garage, Miles assessed the damage Billy caused. Thousands of dollars worth of repairs to be done. At least it was just the garage, and not something more important like the kitchen or one of the bedrooms.

"I'm gonna miss this thing," Miles sighs, stepping close and patting the ruined body. He and this Jeep had been through hard times. Deadlines, drama, mental breakdowns, all of it experienced in the once lovingly - worn leather seats. It was over eight years old, but ran like a dream.

"I'm sorry that I destroyed your car, Upshur," Billy says, looking down at his feet, playing with his fingers.

"You already apologized for it," Miles says. He already pulled everything he needed from the car before he and Waylon left for the asylum, everything thankfully still in tact, "Besides, you didn't know what you were doing."

Over to the side of the garage, Miles sees a wall - mounted switch. He walks over to the switch, flicking it, and the garage doors groaned open with a loud of squeak of metal.

"Alright, get this outside."

There's a long, long silence. Miles stares, waiting. When Billy doesn't respond, he sighs.

" _Please_ , get this outside, please," Miles adds, aggravation building.

Billy nods, smiling, placing a hand onto the crumpled hood of the Jeep. Dark grey smoke envelopes the Jeep. There's a sharp groan, and the hood of the Jeep flies off, crumpling and landing to the side.

"You're a real headache, you know that?" Miles tells Billy, crossing his arms and leaning against the wall.

"It's not a headache to be polite," Billy quips as a the doors of the car drop off, rims and nuts and bolts clattering and scattering across the garage floor, "You can go back inside, Miles, I'll only be a few minutes."

Miles shakes his head, "I'd rather watch, actually."

Billy quietly returns to his work. To Miles, Billy wasn't destroying the car, it felt more like he was methodically taking it apart, piece by piece, then taking the pieces and rendering them unsalvageable. After twenty minutes of only the sound of metal being bent and broken, there laid a less - than - Jeep - sized pile of scrap where Miles' car used to be.

"Same thing you did in the asylum?"

Billy shakes his head, "No. I worked much quicker. It would have taken hours to destroy everything if I went any slower there," he picks his hands up, and Miles notices his palms are covered in ash. Billy waits, and the ash absorbs into his grey skin. He looks at Miles. Two white dots sit in the middle of Billy's hollow eyes, bastards of irises. Miles shivers, looking away.

"Let's start scattering."


	19. Hit ENTER

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's too much work to be done to make choices

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooof.....OOOOFFFFF ok....alright ok

Miles glances at the clock on the wall, sighing as the hands turn to midnight. He had wished the Park children a strained goodnight, and was still waiting for Waylon to come downstairs. It took him and Billy around two hours to properly transfer and scatter the scrap remains of Miles' Jeep. Even if it weren't destroyed, Miles would have had to get rid of the car anyway. Can't have anything that can be properly identified and traced back to him. Especially when it was a bright Red, terribly well - kept Jeep. After they finished their errand, Miles brought up Waylon's laptop, both their cameras, both their collected files, and the notes and handheld camera Miles had brought to their second run through Mount Massive.

Miles places his camera down, ready to head back upstairs to check on Waylon, when the dark - haired figure of Lisa passes the kitchen.

Lisa's eyes are red, face puffy. Miles immediately looks back down, continuing to fiddle with his own camera.

"Frank said you knew," Lisa's voice strains, "How."

Miles shrugs, running a hand over his mouth, "You aren't as secretive as you thought."

"Why didn't you tell him then?" she says, stepping into the light of the kitchen, eyes slightly hidden by shadow, "You left it to us. Why?"

"Wasn't my place," Miles fiddles with the stubs of his missing fingers, "He deserved to hear it from you. He deserved the truth."

Miles closes his eyes. There's a long silence, and Lisa's light footsteps walked away, up the stairs. As soon as she went up the stairs, heavier steps followed. Miles opens his eyes to see Frank staring at him, neck muscles bulging, hands balled into tight fists. Billy stands off to the side, watching.

Miles meets his gaze, locking eyes. _I'm not scared of you, dickhead, go intimidate some old ladies or something._

Franks turns his back, walking out the front door, slamming it shut.

_That's what I thought, fucker._

Seconds later, Waylon steadily walks down the stairs. He's holding the bannister tight. Miles puts the camera down.

"Hey, man," he says, voice gentle.

Waylon looks slightly cleaner, hair fluffy, but he still looks as devoid of life and as stressed as he did when Miles pulled him out of his bathtub. He's out of his wet clothes, replaced by a clean white longsleeve and a pair of faded jeans, "Hi," Waylon says, voice hoarse, "The kids are asleep. What are we doing?"

Miles motions him into the kitchen. If Lisa said anything when she went upstairs, he wasn't mentioning it, and Miles wouldn't pry.

"We, Park, are gonna upload my shit first," Earlier that day, Miles had grabbed a phone charger from the living room and charged his phone. He took photos of all of his notes, and all of the files, using a spare USB cord to upload the photos to Waylon's laptop. Miles noticed a missed call from his editor, but decided not to call them back just yet.

"We aren't going to watch anything first?" Waylon asks, sitting down in the kitchen chair.

"No time, we have to get everything out. We've already waited two days after we got out. Murkoff could already have a plan in place to write Project Walrider off as myth and legend," Miles had reviewed some of the footage in the laptop's editing software, and saw that the video itself was hours of raw, unedited footage. Taking the time to watch would make it too easy for Murkoff to close in. Miles quickly cycled over his uploaded files. Everything was readable, photos of both side of the papers visible. It would have been better with a scanner, but Miles had to make do with what he had. He would stuff the original files in his duffle for safe keeping, in case he ever needed them.

"Everything is ready to go on my end. I'll scan and post yours after, and then the shit we found back on our little adventure today," Miles had logged into his work account, video and files uploaded, ready to be posted with a push of a button. He hadn't begun to work with Waylon's yet, preferring to have Waylon present when he did. He had pushed aside Waylon's things, and he motioned with his hands towards the black binder.

"Try your best to organize your notes."

Waylon nods, but otherwise doesn't respond, reaching over the table. Miles reaches a hand out, placing it over Waylon's extended hand, squeezing.

"This is it, Waylon. Everything we went through? We're gonna make Murkoff feel it twice as fucking hard," A hot shiver runs down Miles' spine,"We're gonna ruin everything they fucking have."

Waylon swallows, nodding, "Airing out their dirty laundry," he says. Miles leans in close, smiling.

"That's fucking right. We're gonna bury Murkoff into the fucking ground, " Feeling his skin goosebump, pulse race, he pulls Waylon's arm, Waylon standing, "Come here, look at this."

Waylon joins Miles in front of his laptop, eyes scanning the screen, "What website is this?"

" _Nevada Square_."

Waylon head picks up, "That's your website...the one you work for, at least."

"That's right. Think of it as the Midwest American _New York Times_...largest newspaper and online journalism website this side of the country. Thankfully, I've worked long enough that they gave me senior access."

"What does that mean? Senior access?" The barest hints of a smile cross Waylon's mouth.

"It means that only _I_ can edit, publish, and delete this shit. It'll stay up, and nobody can do a mother - fucking - thing about it. That power is mine, and _nobody_ can take it away from me."

Miles hits the ENTER key.

 

-

 

Frank comes through the front door, "Waylon?"

Picking his head up, the sudden joy that Waylon felt had sunk down into the floor. He looks back down, focusing on organizing his files. _Go away. I don't want to talk to you._

"Waylon? There's police here. They want to talk to you."

Blood running cold, Waylon's head jerks up.

"Shit," Miles says, "Shit, everything is still loading."

Panic starts to seep in. Ears ringing, Waylon sits.

"What are they asking for?" Miles calls, voice deep.

"They brought his car back."

That ramped up the adrenaline in Waylon's body. _Fuck, someone did escape in my car. They know where I live. They're going to kill us. Shit. Shitshitshitshitshit -_

"Hold on," Miles calls. He lays a heavy hand on Waylon's shoulder, cutting into his skin, "Watch the laptop. I'll be right back."

 

-

 

"Evening, officer. Pretty late to be making house calls, isn't it?"

The officer, dressed in a classic greyish - brown uniform with a wide - brimmed hat, nods his head.

"Sorry to trouble you, Mr. Park, but we we're making rounds at the edge of town, and stumbled upon your car," his accent dripping with Colorado flair, he motions behind him. The Park's family car was a 1992 Volvo Station Wagon, baby blue, the back wheels hiked up as it was attached to a large red tow truck.

Miles sighs in dramatic relief, "Oh, thank goodness," he reaches a hand out, the officer taking it, feverishly shaking the officer's hand, "Thank you Officer...?

"Denton. Blake Denton," the officer nods.

"Thank you, Officer Denton, for bringing our car back, my wife was very upset," Miles releases Denton's hand, "Seriously, thank you."

"It's no trouble, Mr. Park. Any idea how your car made it out that far?"

Miles stutters, placing his hands on his hips, "Oh, I was getting off of work - they gave me a few days off - and noticed my car missing from the garage. Thankfully, my old friend Frank here - " he jerks a thumb in Frank's direction, who was leaning against the porch bannister, "Was kind enough to pick me up and drive me home."

Denton nods his head, "You work up in the mountains, at the asylum, don't you?"

"Yes I do."

"What'd'ya do there?"

Miles huffs, mind racing, "I'm a...a technical engineer. I make sure all of their computers are running smoothly."

"I see," Denton says, scribbling down notes on a small black notepad, "Why not call the police, Mr. Park?"

"Well, I," Miles sucks in a breathe, "Up there, privacy is a large concern. Not that they distrust the police, but police make the patients nervous...you understand."

"I do. Mind tellin' me what's happenin' up there? We were getting reports of cars peeling out like bats out of Hell from the mountain," Denton doesn't look up from his notepad.

Miles shrugs, "I have no idea. I've been gone for two days already, but everything was fine when I left," Miles pulls out his wallet, "How much do I owe for the towing?"

Denton holds a hand up, "Nothing, Mr. Park, but that doesn't explain why you didn't call the police when you came home."

Without blinking, Miles replies, "I thought it was a prank to be perfectly honest. Unfortunately, a lot of the workers there think I'm a know - it - all...a little hazing I guess," Miles laughs fakely.

Denton smiles, "I know the feeling. Got myself locked out of the locker room from the showers after my first few days," He laughs, "Took them _hours_ to come get me."

"Ooh, that's cruel," Miles says.

"Comes with the job," Denton says, "But driving your car until it ran out of gas out of town is pretty extreme for a prank."

"I can't explain why they went to those lengths, Officer Denton, but they did. I'd rather not stir the pot too much. New job, you understand."

"I do...well, Mr. Park," Denton tucks his notepad into his breast pocket, "I've already taken too much of your time already. Here are your keys. They were still in the ignition," he hands Miles a ring of keys attached to a lanyard of a school Miles didn't recognize, "I'll be taking my leave now...your tank is empty, by the way. Harry?"

A man in the tow truck's window leans out.

"Drop the car!"

The man throws a thumbs up in Denton's direction. With a flash of orange lights and the groan of metal, the Park's station wagon is on the ground.

"Thank you so much for returning my car, Officer Denton," Miles shakes the officer's hand again, "I hope we never have to meet again under these circumstances."

"I hope not, Mr. Park. Have a good night, gentleman," With a tip of his hat, Officer Denton climbs into the tow truck along with the driver, slowly peeling out from the dirt road.

Miles and Frank quietly stay outside. They exchange a glance, both deflating.

"Oh my _fucking_ God - " Frank breathes, "That fucking _worked_? That really fucking _worked_?"

"It fucking worked alright, Jesus - _fucking_ \- Christ!" Miles grips the station wagon's keys tight.

"He fucking believed all of it? Is this town so full of hicks that they believe _anyone_ who flashes them a smile?" Frank leaned over the bannister, hands waving.

"Seemed like it...let's head back inside."

Inside, Billy is leaning over Waylon, watching the laptop with him. His head is rested on top of Waylon's head, arms lazily dangling over his shoulders and around his neck.

Miles holds up the keys, "Guess who's keys local Officer Dipshit handed me," his voice edging into a sing - song tone. Waylon picks his head up, eyes going wide, standing, Billy dissipating.

"Are those my...?"

"No, it's the keys to the fucking city, yes they're _your_ car keys! A baby blue Volvo, old as shit?" Miles tosses the keys across the room, Waylon catching them.

Waylon nods, "That's our car...." Waylon grins wide, " _Thank you_ , Miles."

"You didn't look ready to talk to anybody. I had to think fast, but he shouldn't come around anymore....don't even worry about it, Park," Miles comes to Waylon's side, "How's the upload?"

"Almost done," Waylon organizes his black binder, draping his keys around his neck, "I'm done organizing everything."

"That's great...your files will take longer to go through," Miles watches the progress bar of the laptop run from 75% to 85%.

"Why will it take longer?" Waylon asks.

"Because I'm gonna censor your name," Miles says.

Waylon stops moving. The progress bar runs to 88%.

"Why would you do that?" Waylon's face drops.

"So nothing will come back to you," the bar runs to 92%, "Waylon, if your name and face gets out there....they're going to come for you," Miles stands straight, staring into Waylon's eyes, "It's for the best, Park."

"What if I want my face to be out there?"

Miles almost laughs, "Are you kidding me?"

"No...no, I'm not kidding. I want everything out there, unedited."

"Park, I'm not going to do that." _Are you fucking crazy?_

"Why not?" Waylon snaps, irritated

"Because I'm not going to," The progress bar reached 99%.

There's a tense, angry silence. Waylon's look is dark, and his eyes burn with intensity. There's a soft ding, and Miles looks down to see UPLOAD COMPLETED. He sighs, "Why do you want to be exposed? Why put yourself at that risk?"

Waylon looks down, sniffing.

"It's just not fair for you to take all the heat," his voice shook, "This shouldn't be just your burden."

Miles sighs, "That's fucking stupid. I knew what I was getting into when I made the trip down here. I knew shit would go down. I was ready to take the fall, either because I got caught trespassing and locked up, or I found something that wasn't meant for the public eye. I'm ready to fall off the fucking grid. You aren't."

"I was ready the moment I sent that email," Waylon said quickly, "I wanted everyone to know. Now, they'll all see."

With a shiver down his spine, Miles realizes he's created a man who's only purpose was to take the fucking fall. The Waylon that was worried about his own self preservation was gone. Devestation changed him, and all that remained was a man who deluded himself into thinking he was only worth being abused and discarded. _Self worth be damned_.

"If you won't, I will," Waylon says, shoulders trembling, trying to feign strength.

_Shit._


	20. Upload

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ah
> 
> Sketch of billy from this chapter (censored pee pee) http://5un5yst.tumblr.com/post/183187952078/scene-frm-a-new-chapter-in-my-outlast

"No."

Waylon shakes his head, "I'm so... _sick_ , of feeling scared, Miles. I want to feel safe again. Why are you allowed vindication, but not me?"

"He has a point," Billy says, sitting on the kitchen counter.

Miles still shakes his head, "It's different."

"How is it different?" Waylon says, voice hurt.

"It's _different_ ," Miles takes a step closer, looking up into Waylon's face, "Because I have no one. You have a family. They need you. No one will miss me."

Waylon sucks in breath through his nostrils, shrugging, "I'll miss you."

Miles laughs, looking down and turning his back. He runs a hand over his face, "That doesn't count," One hand on his hip, he turns back to Waylon's laptop, unplugging his camera, and plugging Waylon's in, "That's not the same, and you know it."

"If it makes any difference, I would've posted the footage if I met you or not. I wouldn't even think of editing it. We're grown fucking men...I can take the heat, even if it burns."

Miles stops. _What am I doing? He's right. We are grown fucking men. Waylon is a grown. Fucking. Man. I have no right to control him, or what he wants to do_. Miles closes his eyes.

"You're right," he says, "You're right, and I'm sorry. I shouldn't be trying to make these decisions for you."

Waylon almost seemed surprised. He stands a bit straighter, "It's...it's alright - "

Miles cuts him off, "It's not alright. It's not gonna be alright for a while. I just...I need you to know how dangerous Murkoff is."

"I already know," Waylon says, quiet, "I wouldn't say it if I didn't know what I was getting into."

Nodding, Miles motions Waylon closer, handing him his cellphone, "Take photos of the papers. I'll clean up the footage."

 

-

 

The clock strikes 2 AM when Waylon and Miles finish taking photos of Waylon's papers, posting them and his footage. Waylon shook the entire time.

"Are you sure you want to do this? We can still take the time to edit the film," Miles tells him.

Waylon shakes his head, "No. We have to." _Free me_.

When Miles hit ENTER, and he quietly watched the progress bar reach 100%,Waylon almost cried in relief. Waylon grinned, falling into an open chair, a single tear rolling down his cheek. _Finally, all of this will be heard. This will give me that safety back, like how it gave Miles his control._

He doesn't feel any different.

_Give it time. Everything will even out soon._

Miles started sifting through the photos and notes from their day trip.

"Maybe wear a hat next time you leave the house for a few weeks, alright? Murkoff is probably gonna pick up Matheson, and start asking questions around town."

Waylon nods. He thought Miles would put up more of a fight when he insisted on posting everything unedited, but he gave way pretty fast. They both watch Matheson's testimony upload. Miles grins when it uploads completely.

"He's gonna be pretty fucking mad when he finds out we posted this," Miles says, "Might shit his pants."

"Think Murkoff will kill him?" Waylon asks. He felt guilty about having to trick and knock Matheson out, but he made his choice to work with Murkoff. He had to suffer the consequences of his actions. But he didn't think Matheson deserved to died over it.

"Hopefully. These people are animals. Failure isn't a fucking option. He's lucky if they kill him," Miles closes the laptop, "But he made his own decision to work with Blackjaw. Mercs die, and he would've died by the hands of a big corporate entity paying his salary either way," He closes both of their cameras, putting each on top of their own respective notes.

"What do we do now?" Waylon asks.

"We get to bed," Miles replies, "Wait till tomorrow to watch Murkoff burn. Then I'll leave."

Waylon's heart sinks. He had forgotten Miles would leave. He didn't want Miles to.

"Do you need help getting upstairs?" Miles asks, immediately sliding to Waylon's side.

"No, I'm..." Avoiding Miles' gaze, Waylon stares into the living room, "I'm sleeping on the couch." _I don't deserve to sleep in the same room as her._

"Why doesn't she sleep down here?" Miles asks, his voice tight.

Waylon's skin crawls, head snapping back to face Miles, "You already knew? Did everyone know except for me?" Tears edge in his eyes.

"You weren't being quiet about it," Miles says, stoic, "I could hear you yelling from the kitchen."

Everything about Waylon hurts. His nerves were raked over and shot to hell from the drama of the day. His bones are still chilled from the shower, muscles aching and tensing painfully, his chest especially. When he got changed - and it took a while to escape his wet clothes and hang them in the tub - he saw himself in the bathroom mirror. He looked worse undressed than he did dressed - broken and ugly, thinner than he was two months ago. The bruises had faded, but the scars of bite marks still dress his shoulders, a large ugly scar in the middle of his chest. Long scars scrape down his arms, scattered on his legs and stomach. Seeing himself made the world stop.

"I'll take the couch," Miles says, "You can sleep in the basement. Couch surfing isn't good for a bad leg."

"It's fine," Waylon says, "I'll be OK," Chest growing tight, he stares at the kitchen table.

Miles closes the space between them. He lays a hand on Waylon's shoulder, palm warm, "The bed downstairs is pretty comfortable. You'll sleep better down there than up here," Miles flashes a strained grin, "I'll help you down. C'mon."

Waylon is powerless as he let's Miles lead him down into the basement. As Waylon's bare feet touch the floor, a ringing starts in his head. The basement is dark, a single beam of moonlight illuminating the room in a blue glow, smelling of earth and dust. Miles' duffle bag is sitting at the foot of the bed on the floor. The bed isn't made, blankets still askew, looking slept in and comfortable. It calls to Waylon, pulling him in by his exhausted body.

Miles helps sit him on the bed. His mouth moves, but Waylon can't hear him. Waylon's eyes wander down to stare at Miles' hands. They're scarred, and flit wildly as Miles talks, an endearing quality Waylon has noticed. One hand places itself on Waylon's knee, shaking him.

"See you tomorrow," Miles says, distant. His warm body lifts away, away from Waylon, waving a short wave as he climbs the stairs.

Waylon leans back into the bed. The pillow smells like Miles. He pulls the blankets up over his shoulders, everything going black as soon as he closes his eyes.

 

-

 

  
_**"What is this place? My head?"** _

**Miles paces the ashy black ground, bending down to grab at the black grass. It erupts into dust as soon as he clenches his hand.**

**" This is your head, if you want to call it that."**

**Looking up, Miles sees a mass of black, with two pinpricks of white masquerading as eyes on top of the familiar steep hill.**

**Miles puts his hands on his hips, _"I'm not climbing this again - get down here."_**

**There's a gust of hot wind, ruffling through Miles' hair. The wind carries the cloud down, and Billy's grey form walks through. Where Billy steps, the black grass peels back, revealing white earth underneath. The cloud behind him shifts and forms into a broken dome around his back.**

**"This is where your mind goes when you need a break. When you sleep. Call it a headspace," Billy opens his arms, beckoning Miles forward.**

**Without missing a beat, Miles steps into Billy's arms, wrapping Billy into a tight hug. Billy's body fits snug against Miles' own. Billy laughs.**

**"What's this for?" Billy asks**

**_"You always look like you need a hug,"_ Miles says. It sounds outrageously, horribly fucking stupid, but it felt right to hug Billy. Billy carried this sadness with him that lingered in the air. A ghost, by every sense of the word, trapped by the pain he lived through. Miles lets go, holding Billy an arms length away by his shoulders.**

**" _We're leaving tomorrow,"_ Miles says, " _We're gonna head to Nevada."_**

**" You live there, yes. Where do we go after?" Billy asks.**

**"I _don't know. We'll figure it out_ ," Miles, really, had no idea what he was going to do. He only planned ahead far enough to get back home.  _Just roll with the punches, Upshur, like you always do._**

**" Can I make a suggestion?" Billy asks. Miles nods his head, and Billy slips through his fingers, turning to dust. Upshur turns.**

**The black earth had disappeared, replaced with orange and brown dirt, dotted with green in random grass patches. The white sky shifts to blue, absent of clouds, the sun a blazing white dot. A few yards away, a faded green trailer sits, edges rusted. Behind the trailer, a large expanse of desert, trees dotted, leaves dark and trunks grey. Billy stands next to the door of the trailer.**

**" This is more of a favor _,"_ Smoke licks at his legs, "I want to visit California. I want to see my mother."**

**Miles nods, " _Whatever you want to do," Reuniting a mother and son - circumstances fucked to Hell, but better than nothing._**

**" Have you ever been to Death Valley, Upshur?" Billy asks with a smile.**

**" _Never been,"_ Miles walks up to the trailer, staring at the dirty and rusted door.**

**"I live just an hour away, in Ridgecrest. It's beautiful there. When we're done speaking with her, we should visit. I think you would like it there."**

**" _What's she like? Your mom?"_**

**Billy's smile falters slightly, " Well, she won't take the news of my death lightly, a mother never does, but she will meet you with suspicion."**

**Miles touches the front door, nails scraping over rust.**

**" But growing up, she was a very hard woman, but you have to be when you have nothing, but she was very beautiful. She used to tell me, ' _Son, you're lucky you look like me. I have the best genes this side of the country_ _,'"_ Billy chuckles, eyes scanning Miles' face, "You look just like your father, Upshur."**

**A _crack_ sounds in the air, and Miles feels his chest burn. The metal of the trailer door webbs, denting inward. Billy recoils with a gasp, erupting into smoke. The scene explodes into black dust, the color of the California desert land melting, turning back into the churning ground and giant burning hill.**

**Miles looks up, and see's Billy crouched at the top of the hill. He tries to bury the anger that burns bright, looking down to see the scorch mark on his chest glowing a lazy orange. He touches the mark, hand losing color, reverting to a dirty white.**

_**Don't get angry. Control it. Bury it down.** _

**Miles digs his fingers into the mark, looking back up at Billy. Anger still thrums hard in Miles' blood.**

_**"It's fine, Billy, it's fine. I'm sorry. Come back down. Please?"** _

**Billy doesn't move from his perch.**

**Miles sighs, looking down at the mark, seeing the orange pulse uncontrollably.**


	21. Lover's Halo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Miles Upshur is a gay man, and a disaster, and i love him
> 
> Facecanons for my main men!
> 
> http://5un5yst.tumblr.com/post/183270431888/outlast-facecanons-repost-bc-i-forgot-miles

A sharp jab in his side jostles Miles awake. He jumps alive, legs swinging over the couch, "What? What's going on?"

"Where's my husband?" Lisa demands, voice slightly scratchy from sleep.

It's daytime, the slightest hints of sunlight peeking through the windows. Miles glances at a wall clock, seeing that it's 6 AM. A quick look around, and Billy is nowhere to be seen. Miles grunts, irritated.

"Shit - he's in the fucking _basement_ ," Miles says, elbows on his knees as he rubs sand from his eyes.

"Why?"

Miles makes a face, "You kicked him out of his bedroom. Where else was he supposed to sleep?"

"Up _here_ ," Lisa retorts, hands on her hips.

Miles shakes his head, stretching out his arms and rolling his shoulders. His back is stiff, skin slightly sweaty, "Couches are shit to sleep on. He deserved a bed, at the very fucking least," Miles has had his days of couch - surfing throughout his life, and he blames it partially for his aching back.

"Can you go get him?"

"It's 6 AM. He needs the sleep," Miles sits back down on the couch, pulling on his sneakers.

A quick pattering of feet above makes Lisa drop her voice lower, "Go get him. Please."

When they lock gazes, Miles sees Lisa's eyes edge with tears. _She's frustrated. The stress might be getting to her_. Though she made a huge, horrible mistake, Waylon was her husband. He was the father of her children _(Hopefully_ , Miles adds,) and Miles didn't doubt that she loved him. It stirred feelings of remorse in Miles' gut. Maybe he should've kept his mouth shut after all.

Deciding he didn't want to stir the pot anymore than he already did, Miles obliged, lazily trudging into the basement. The basement is a warm yellow, a thin shape under the white covers of the bed, form rising and falling with the shallow breaths of a deep sleep.

"Waylon?" Miles calls from the foot of the staircase. When there's no answer, Miles climbs back up the stairs, deciding that there's no better way to wake someone up than with a hot cup of coffee. A pot is already prepared on the stove, Lisa standing at the counter next to it, arms crossed, a mug in her hand. When she sees Waylon isn't with him, her eyebrows knit.

"What are you doing?" She asks. Miles grabs a mug from the drying rack, pouring a hearty cup.

"Waking him up. What does he like? Sugar and milk?"

"Creamer, one scoop of sugar," Lisa replies.

Miles bounces around the kitchen, making Waylon's cup and then carefully carrying it down the basement stairs. It almost spilled three different times, but Miles made the cup to the bottom of the basement unspilt. Waylon hasn't moved from his spot on the bed. Miles approaches slowly. He sits down on the edge of the bed, holding the coffee mug in his right hand, carefully pulling back the blanket with his left. Waylon is facing the wall, arms curled against his chest. Miles' mind wanders back to the first night he stayed at the Park house, when Billy healed Waylon's leg. He looked much different here than he did in that night in his bedroom. Waylon's face was softened, pleasantly asleep, hair tousled.

_Don't wake him up. Don't do it. He needs the rest._

Ever so gently, Miles shakes Waylon's left shoulder.

"Wake up, Waylon," Miles whispers, "Wake up."

Waylon stirs, shifting onto his stomach, arms curling under his head. Miles shakes him less gently.

"Waylon? Wake up, c'mon."

Waylon sighs through his nose, rolling over onto his back. Eyes still closed, cheeks rosy, dry lips parted.

Miles realizes he's never had a long, hard look at Waylon. He memorizes the sleepy look, the messy sandy hair, the stubble of a beard on Waylon's chin, delicate lips that were dry and cracked. There's a large scar on his chin, pink against his tan skin that cut a pale line in the stubble, another few scars on his cheek and forehead. The dark circles under Waylon's eyes were deep - the sign of an overworked body. His cheeks were slightly gaunt - another sign, this one of quick weight loss. _They probably starved him in the asylum._

As Miles stares, eyes tracing the lines of Waylon's face, he leans in closer. _He's pretty handsome_ , Miles thinks _, in like a boy - next - door way. If the boy - next - door was living in Nightmare on Elm Street._

Waylon stirs in the bed, sleepy groan muffled.

Miles holds his breath.

"Mornin', Baby," Waylon mutters sleepily. He pulls out an arm from under the blanket.

Soft fingers trail up Miles' left arm, trace up his bicep to his collarbone. Miles' face grows hot. _He thinks I'm Lisa._

"Good morning," Miles states loudly, sitting straight, trying to shake Waylon from his sleep.

Waylon's eyes flick open, taking a deep breath, coming fully to consciousness. His hand pulls away. His shirt hangs loosely from his chest as he sits up.

"Ugh," Waylon groans, "What time is it?" Waylon rubs sleep from his eyes.

"Six in the morning," Miles replies, brushing off the moment as a lapse of lucidity, "I brought you coffee," He hands the steaming mug to Waylon, "It's hot, be careful." _God help you, Upshur, what the fuck is wrong with you? He was sleeping and you were busy eyeing him up._

"You didn't have to do that for me," Waylon says, shyly taking the mug, "Why so early?"

 _Lisa wanted you awake_ , "I thought me and you could watch the news together. See if our footage has gained traction yet."

Waylon nods with a sleepy, toothless grin, sipping his coffee. Miles waits for Waylon to comment on his sleepy touches. None come.

"How's Billy doing?" Waylon asks between sips.

Billy had looked so surprised and hurt in the headspace, Miles doubted he'd see him at all today. Miles grits his teeth, "Still sleeping."

"He sleeps? Weird," Waylon's legs curl up to his chest, body leaning to the side

Waylon leans into a sunbeam, the light catching his face. The tan of his skin glows, sandy hair reflecting yellow, tips whitening. Throughout his life, Miles would wake up in the morning and see his partners in his bed, the day's sun filtering through the window. He used to call that same glow a _lover's halo._

_You're more fucked in the head that you thought, Upshur. Waylon finds out his wife is cheating on him, and you try to slide right in on the rebound._

Miles huffs at the thought. _Shut up._

"Are you OK?" Waylon asks, hand brushing against Miles' leg in concern.

Miles stands quickly, body flushing with shame, "I'm fine. I'll be upstairs whenever you're ready."

Before Waylon can object or comment, Miles bounds up the stairs.

 

 

  
-

 

 

  
Billy still hasn't appeared by the time the boys had said their goodbyes to him, their mother, and Frank. They had run downstairs to say goodbye to Waylon, then quickly ran out of the house. _He's just scared,_ Miles reminds himself, _he doesn't like people being angry with him. He'll come around, eventually, just be patient_. Miles never thought he would have to worry about ghosts in his life. Physical ghosts, anyway. It's his fault Billy is hiding, anyway. Miles always felt angry, but after Waylon saved him, the floodgates opened, and that was all he felt. A quiet, pulsing irritation that could quickly evolved into anger and then a rage. He used to be able to hold it all in, but now it's escaping him, rage spilling out like he was an overfilled cup.

That scared Miles.

While he was waiting for Waylon to come upstairs, Lisa and Frank quietly conversing near the backdoor as Lisa smokes, Miles poured himself a cup of coffee and filled the time with his phone. He's gotten a dozen missed calls from his editor, as well as thirty more from colleagues and unknown numbers. Sixty text messages sat unread, along with twelve new emails. He deletes everything.

Miles never was close with the staff of the _Nevada Square._ Most of them were busy just writing and getting everything to be passed by the editor. None of them gave a solid shit about the truth, or doing what was right. Miles only showed up to the home offices when he had to. Miles had better things to do than be leered at by the cute female secretary at the front desk, or speak to the fakes who were busy with deadlines than the art of the columns.

There were only two people he liked. They're the most hardworking, honest people he's ever met. If he felt that he deserved to have them, he could consider them friends. They're a couple, but the strangest fucking couple Miles has ever met in his entire life.

His thumbs pause over the DELETE button on his phone over their numbers. _Don't open the texts. It's better to leave them out of this._

Deciding to just ignore everything altogether, Miles closed his messages and emails and started scanning the news. According to the few articles he goes through so far, people are already setting up the gallows, with Murkoff's name etched into the ropes. Miles grins from ear to ear. It only took the most horrible experiences of his life, but his work finally hit it big time. Not that he's ever cared about fame, but he always felt that nothing should be hidden from the public.

Hearing a cough, Miles picks his eyes up and sees Waylon leaning against the doorway.

"What's the news say?" Waylon asks, grabbing a chair to sit at the kitchen table. Miles stands, rounding the table and leaning over Waylon's shoulder.

"Take a look."

Together, sitting at the kitchen table, they read twelve separate articles. The gist of all of them run along the lines of ' _Disturbing Footage and Evidence Points to Inhuman Medical Experiments Against Mentally Ill Patients by the Murkoff Company.'_ Miles tries not to grin so wide, but he can't help it.

"God, this is _everywhere_ ," Waylon gasps, " _Time Magazine, Wall Street Journal_...wait, what was that?" Waylon presses on Miles' screen, and a video from the _BBC_ , "International, too."

"Experts from fucking _everywhere_ are saying our shit is legit, no editing, no CGI, just hardcore suffering. Most of them don't want to believe the Walrider, but they do. They really fucking do, Waylon," Miles hands Waylon his phone, adrenaline pulsing hard. He can't say he's happy, but he's proud. Proud that he lived to expose Murkoff for the evil they are. He paces around the kitchen, smiling. Waylon exchanges the same look. Miles laughs, thrusting his arms up into the air. A loud yell escapes from his gut, laughing.

"Fuck, they _believe_ us, Waylon, _fuck_ ," Miles rushes over to Waylon, hugging him on impulse.

Waylon laughs, standing, scrawny arms wrapping around Miles' shoulders. Miles holds him tight, patting Waylon's back.

"We fucking _did it!_ Haha!"

Miles spins around the room, Waylon being easily traveled in his arms. Miles stops in front of the sink, pulling back, holding Waylon at arms length. Waylon's smile is big, revealing crinkles at his eyes. Before Miles can say anything else, Waylon pitches forward.

Miles is powerless as Waylon's delicate lips press against his. It's a weak, chaste kiss, that misses the whole of Miles' mouth, instead kissing at the corner of his lips. Miles' world freezes. Warmth blooms in Miles' head and chest, void of anger, replaced by something Miles hasn't felt in _years_.

 _Longing_ overtakes his body.

Waylon pulls back, smile falling quickly, face red like a hot iron. His pale eyes go wide, mouth falling open with shock.

_God in heaven, Jesus Christ, strike me from the Goddamn earth._

"What are you two yelling about in here?"

 

 


	22. Personal Victories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Personal victories don't last long - that's why they're personal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! I just want to thank everyone so for reading :) ! This fic has gotten over 800 hits on Ao3 so far :)! I have no idea exactly how long this fic is going to be, but I sure as hell am packing a ton of love into it <3 thank u all so much <3
> 
> I drew a quick doodle of Matheson here <3 http://5un5yst.tumblr.com/post/183296598693/quill-matheson-oc-created-for-a-mercenary-group

Frank stands in the doorway, Lisa staring from behind, over his shoulder.

"Celebrating our own personal victories," Miles says quickly, grabbing his phone from the table. He ignores Waylon's shocked look. _This is unbelievable. Lord strike me where I stand, I can't believe this._ The warmth he felt quickly eroded into irritation, "Look," he tosses Frank the phone.

Frank catches it effortlessly, playing the video of the BBC broadcast.

" _True horror, or horror movie? Late last night, an American journalist who is now identified as Miles Upshur, posted two videos, and dozens of files that pointed to mass medical malpractice, as well as something darker that lurked below the surface of a charity organization run by the transnational Murkoff Corporation. But is it a true account, or a well crafted lie? We take a look later this morning."_

Frank picks his head up, "Damn, they know it's you," he moves over so Lisa can see the phone.

Miles shrugs, "I don't give a shit. People know, that's what matters."

"So you're just... _fine_ with being a target?" Lisa pauses the video.

"Yeah, I am," Miles eyes Waylon. Waylon is leaning against the sink, hands tightly gripping the edge, horrified. Miles looks to Lisa to avoid meeting Waylon's eye.

"What about your family?" Lisa takes Miles' phone from Frank's grasp, walking over and handing it to him.

"I don't have any. No friends, either. Just makes everything easier for me to disappear. If no one cares, no one will be looking." Miles pockets his phone.

"Outside. Two black vans. Tinted windows. They're big," Billy's echoing voice seems to come from all sides of the room.

Miles glances around, "Billy?" _Where are you?_

"Who?" Frank asks, steeping forward.

"Pulling up front," Billy's voice raised itself in urgency.

Miles puts a finger up to his lips, " _Sh_ , hold on, I hear something."

Just as Billy had said, Miles hears the unmistakable sound of tires pulling up to the front of their house. Frank and Lisa freeze. Waylon sinks low, sitting onto the wooden floor.

"Who's that?" Lisa asks, voice close to a whimper.

Miles puts his hands up, "Stay here. I'll check it out."

Frank starts, "I'll come with - "

"I don't think so, Big Guy. Let's all just stay calm. I'll go check it out," Without another word, Miles slowly crosses the living room to the front door. He leans into the window's view, peeking out. Parked behind on the road, two black vans sat. The windows were tinted, blocking the visage of anyone inside. On the side of the vans were the familiar silver symbols of Blackjaw. Miles waits five seconds, ten seconds, fifteen. No one exits the vans.

"Do you know how many are in there?" Miles whispers., "Can you see, Billy?"

"Let me \- "

There's a slam of doors, and countless men dressed in all black body armor with large black guns pour from the vans. They shout orders to each other, taking up positions across the property. Some take position by the road, in front of the Park family's station wagon, others are scattered along the yard. Miles watches two mercenaries marathon away from the house, setting up in the distant trees across from the house. A red light dances from their positions. Miles' blood runs cold.

"There's sixteen of them, Miles," Billy hisses, "They'll take you."

"Hell no they won't," Miles bites back, "I'd like to see these assholes try."

_I won't let them take us, Hope, I swear on it. They'll have to kill me before they get their hands on you. I'll make this my final fucking stand if I have to._

"How do they know we're here?" Billy asks.

It _was probably really easy_. Miles didn't bother hiding is face around town, he didn't bother trying to hide the IP address of Waylon's laptop, either. _Could have tracked me through my cellphone, too. God, I'm so fucking careless._

A Blackjaw agent stands at the bottom of the driveway, a large black megaphone it hands. He brings it to his helmet.

"I'm only going to say this once, Upshur," The agent says, voice deep and loud, "We have you surrounded. You _will_ come outside, hands behind your head. If you do not, we will open fire on this house, and kill everyone inside," The man says it casually, as if discussing options for his lunch.

From behind, Miles hears a whimper.

"You have sixty seconds to comply."

The man tucks the megaphone under his arm, hands folded over his lap, the soldiers around him readying their weapons.

"Don't go out there," Billy begs.

"I don't have a choice here," Miles stands straight, stepping to stand in front of the door. _I'm not afraid of these thugs with guns. I can't be. Not when the Parks are here._

"Miles, _don't_ \- " Miles hears Waylon whimper from the kitchen.

Miles' chest hurts. _Christ_. He opens the door.

There's the sound of sixteen guns training on his form as Miles steps outside. He complies with the directions, keeps his hands behind his head, fingers locked. A seventeenth figure appears from behind the second Blackjaw van, one with pink skin and white hair, a scar down the middle of two burning purple eyes. Matheson's mouth curls into a sneer. He walks to the (what Miles decided was) commander, muttering something into his ear. The commander nods.

A sharp pain stabs through Miles' brain, "I'm sorry, Miles, I'm so sorry, please forgive me for this."

Miles' body jerks forward. Jagged, hot, searing pain ripped through his veins. Form seizing, eyes rolling into the back of his head, his vision dances with white light, and black dust.

There's a yell, and Miles feels pellets fly into his chest, knocking him backward.

The world erupts into nothingness.

 

 

-

 

  
The static is almost unnoticeable, at first. But it grows, louder and louder, consuming Waylon's thoughts as he watches Miles walk out onto the porch. The static cuts off.

Waylon blinks.

The windows shatter and explode inward. Frank flips over the heavy wooden dining room table, grabbing Lisa and Waylon and throwing them behind the makeshift cover.

Waylon's body goes stiff, heart bursting in his chest.

_This is your fault. This is your fault. This is your fault._

_"They fucking shot him_!" Frank yells, kneeling in front of the two Parks, "Jesus - _fucking_ \- Christ!"

"Is he _dead_?" Lisa grabs onto Waylon, holding him and shielding him.

"I don't know he fucking disappeared!" Frank ducks as a bullet flies through the kitchen, breaking the window behind.

Pained screams split in the gunfire.

"What do you mean he _disappeared_?" Lisa yells. By the front door, they hear a wet thump. Metal creaks and crashes.

Waylon screws his eyes shut. _Gurgling, choking on blood, impaled through their chests, flesh ripped and raw, bellies split -_

_Get me out of here. It was a mistake to come home. I should have stayed in that asylum. I want out._

A numbness creeps up his body, stinging his legs and arms, thrumming up his neck. He feels his very soul peel back from his body, the loud sounds of bullets and screaming coming to a screeching halt.

Opening his eyes, Lisa and Frank are gone. The window is unbroken, Waylon still sitting with his back to the flipped table. Breathing heavy and shallow, Waylon stands. Peering into the living room, the front door is closed, windows whole.

"Miles?"

Nothing.

"Lisa?"

Nothing.

"Frank?"

 _Nothing_.

It's deathly quiet. A quiet that Waylon knows will come crashing as soon as possible.

The door to the garage creaks open.

"Miles?" Waylon whimpers. _Please be alive. Please, you've gone through so fucking much, please._

A figure drenched head - to - toe in rotting red stumbles into the kitchen, bracing themself against the doorway. Keeled over, their head picks up.

Jeremy Blair's ten - thousand - dollar smiles peels through the blood, teeth unnaturally white.

"We meet again, Park," Blair grins.

Waylon darts for the front door.

"Where are you _going_?" Blair laughs.

Waylon turns the door handle, pulling the door open. Two hands flatten on his back, pushing him forward. Waylon tumbles down the porch steps, head bouncing off the lawn. Waylon groans, attempting to stand. A heavy force hits him in the middle of his back, forcing him back down. The world around him blurs, head ringing.

"I told you to stay there and _die_ , Park," Blair spits, venomous and raw. He flips Waylon onto his back, holding his bloody hands to Waylon's chest. His fingers are daggers, cutting through Waylon's shirt, peeling off his flesh, "Who gave you permission to _survive_?" He picks Waylon up, forcing him back onto the ground. Waylon screams, shutting his eyes, arms raised to shield his face, kicking his legs out. Blair laughs.

"You're gonna stop _me_ , Park? You couldn't stop anyone before, and you think anything is gonna change now?" Blair shakes Waylon, " _Look at me_!"

"Look at me, Waylon, come on, _look at me!_ "

Waylon's eyes snap open. The first thing that hits him is the overwhelming scent of blood and burning metal. Miles is holding him by the front of his shirt. Red gashes are dug into Miles' chest and shoulders, ripping his clothes. The gashes are wet and crimson, yet they don't bleed like a wound should.

"What in the Merry - _fucking_ \- Hell are you _doing_?" Miles demands, "Are you trying to get yourself _killed_?" His teeth grit. Red droplets run down his face. Waylon is positive it's not Miles' blood.

Tears well in Waylon's eyes. _He's alive. He's fine, he's fine._

Miles' face softens, " _Christ_ , Park, stand up," Miles pulls back, grabbing Waylon's arms and pulling him up.

The scene around Waylon is the same as the countless scenes from the asylum. The green of the lawn is red, human parts disembodied and scattered, mixed with chunks of black kevlar and metal hunks. Two unfamiliar black vans were in front of the house, one with an armor - ridden body dented into the side, their head and limbs twisted in a painful display. _Walrider_. Waylon looks down, seeing his white shirt ruined with blood. Meeting Miles' gaze, Miles looks exhausted, his face tight, blood mussed in his hair.

"This is worse than I thought, Park. _Much worse._ "

 

 

 


	23. Much Worse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Act one is coming quick to a close :) oh boy oh boy :))))

Waylon sits on the front porch, his knees drawn up to his chest. There were countless bodies strewn around the yard, mangled beyond recognition. Waylon doesn't so much as blink at the devastation, senses numbed to the violence. He can barely hear Lisa speaking to him, can barely feel her hands on his shoulders.

"Let's go back inside, Waylon, come on, let's get back inside."

The Waylon before would have let himself be picked up by his wife and led into the house. This new, broken Waylon stays put. He does turn his head, looking back into the house through the open door. A Blackjaw agent lays dead on their back in the kitchen, chest burst open, neck twisted. The visor of their helmet is cracked, eyes open and bloodshot. _Blair. I thought that was Blair._ Frank stares down at the body, his form tense. Waylon looks back out into the road.

He can't take his eyes off Miles, who's digging through the Blackjaw vans. Guilt and fear wrap around Waylon's soul. _Billy turned him into a killing machine. If I didn't contact him, he wouldn't have all this blood on his hands._

He watches Miles grab a body at his feet. Waylon see's the blood - soaked, totally intact, body of Matheson be thrown into the back of the Blackjaw van. That _kills_ Waylon. _All of this death and destruction could have been avoided if I didn't open my fucking mouth._

Eyes welling, Waylon stands from the porch, shouldering off Lisa's hands to walk over to Miles and the van. Miles stops digging through the van's passenger side door, meeting Waylon's eye. Miles takes a deep, angry breath.

"I'm so sorry," Waylon mumbles, straining to make his voice heard, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry you had to do this - "

Miles jerks away from the van, grabbing Waylon by the front of his shirt. He doesn't pull, or push, but keeps Waylon close, chests pressed together.

" _You think I wanted this to fucking happen_?" Miles spits. Tired, dead eyes bore into Waylon, "I didn't kill _anyone_. It wasn't _me_ who did this. Billy can take over my body. _I didn't kill anyone_."

Waylon could weep at the unsureness in Miles' words. He can't speak, questions stuck in his throat.

"But all _this_?" Miles sweeps his arms around, "This is the _least_ of our fucking worries," Turning back to the van, he reaches inside the passenger side door.

"Look what I found, Park," Miles says, seething. Out of the van, Miles pulls four manila folders. He hands one to Waylon, fingers smearing blood. Waylon takes the folder, opening it.

Inside is grainy image after grainy image of Waylon Park. The first one is of him speaking to a guard at the front desk, dated two months before. _My first day_. He looks at Miles. Miles has already opened two of the folders, showing grainy and scattered photos of Miles from the asylum. Hands shaking, stone falling into his gut, Waylon sees Miles flip through the last manila folder, throwing it onto the hood of the van. The file falls open to a photo of Waylon, tied down to a table, naked, a dark form over him. _That's me in Gluskin's workshop._

"This is from your footage, right?" Miles asks, "You know what this means, Park?"

Miles leans close, hand slamming onto the hood of the van. The metal under his fingers dent down from the force. Waylon attempts to move away, finding himself being held in place by Miles' other arm, boxed in. Waylon can smell death waft off of Miles' body. Sweating, nerves shattered, Waylon stares down at the open file. Miles' hand covers Waylon's face in the photo, leaving his bottom half on sick display.

"You're. Fucking. _Dead_."

Waylon flinches as Miles pulls away. Waylon closes the folder, Miles' voice raw over his shoulder.

"I told you to let me censor your face. Now you're being hunted. Just like me."

 

-

 

Miles' body hurts from over - exertion, nerves shot, angry and covered in human grey matter and other nasty shit. _Fuck me_. He felt the bullets hit him, and then nothing. He woke up to Waylon running out of the house. He tackled him. Miles barely had time to study the gruesome scene Billy left behind. Anger boiling over, he wants to tear apart everything he can, hands trembling. I told you, Park, I fucking told you. There's nothing we can do about it now.

Forget Waylon, "Billy?" Miles calls, walking away from Waylon and the vans and the bodies. In the trees, he can see the two agents strung up in the branches, insides pierced and flayed on display.

"Hope? Where the fuck are you?" Miles' voice raises to a yell. His voice shakes as he twirls, watching for any hint of grey or dust, " _Hope_?"

Miles twists one last time, catching a mottled hand and a hollow eye peek from behind a thin a tree. He stops. White streaks trail down Billy's cheek. Miles puts his hands up.

"I can't remember anything. _Anything_ , Billy." Miles can't decide if it's better or worse.

Billy doesn't reply, instead shuffling the rest of him behind the tree. Miles quickly rushes around, finding Billy gone from the spot.

" _Please_ , Billy, don't leave - " Miles scans the trees. He looks up into the branches, "I'm angry, yeah, I'm _fucking_ angry - " Miles is yelling so loud, his own voice making his ears ring, "I told you Billy, it's a last resort, and that's what this was - _can you fucking come out_?" He looks to the bodies of the Blackjaw agents. No Billy.

 _"It's not like you can hide forever!_ " Miles screams into the trees, " _You live in this meatsuit_!" Miles pounds on his chest, over the scorch mark Billy left behind, " _We're fucking bonded!_ "

Sentences get caught in his throat, brain running too fast for words to form. He wants to calm down, he wants to feel something that isn't harshness and tenseness that thrusts itself through his body like sharp needles. Miles drops to his knees. The grass is wet with morning dew under his hands. He presses his forehead to the earth.

_Calm. Down._

_I. Can't._

Coldness touches his back.

Immediately, Miles jerks his head up, spinning around. Billy takes a step back. His hands and legs are covered in black soot.

The two men stare at each other. Two pinpricks of white sat in the middle of Billy's eyes, his hands wringing at his stomach, staring down at Miles. Miles breathed in shallow, heavy breaths.

"You did what you had to do, Hope," Miles forces out, "There was no way we'd get out any other way. You understand that, right? They would've killed the Parks - taken Waylon," Miles could picture the Park family all lying dead in the front yard, eyes glassy, bullets in their heads, "You did what you had to."

Billy nods, the light subsiding in his eyes, "I did what I had to do," His layered voice is empty.

Miles nods, sniffing, "That's right."

"Do you hate me?"

Miles shakes his head, "Of course I don't."

Truthfully, Miles isn't angry at Billy. He's angry at himself. Angry that he lets his emotions run his life, that he let himself stay at the Park's home so long, and angry that he listened to Waylon. _I'm smarter than that - I should have done what was right, even if it hurt him._ He's angry that Billy has to do so much fucking horrible shit to keep Miles safe - so they aren't taken and tortured. Most of all, he's angry at Murkoff, for thinking a bunch of assholes with guns were any match for an uncontrollable killing machine. _So much fucking death for one fucking ghost._

"I left Matheson alive," Billy whispers, "Was that alright?"

"I saw," Matheson was out cold, so Miles locked him in the back of one of the vans, "Why?"

"You seemed to like him. You would have hurt more if I killed him," Billy slowly sinks to his knees. His long greasy hair shined in the light of the morning. The ash receded, turning his skin back to a sickly grey, "We should leave now."

"We will," Miles promises, laying back into the grass, keeping his eyes closed. _I could sleep for a hundred years if God let me_ , "After."

"After what?" Billy asks. Miles could hear his voice come from the back of his mind.

"After we call the police."

 


	24. We Have To Leave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for sexual content (oral sex)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *shrugs* boy, this shit took me so long like its so hard to write how fucking SAD this whole shit really is. Lets fucking go. Thank you everyone for dealing w my terrible posting schedule and lack of actual content that isn't total bullshitting and exposition. Yall RULE I cant thank everyone enough

Waylon rips the photos up as Miles comes down from the surrounding trees. Miles doesn't look as angry. However, Miles does carry himself with heavy weariness. As soon as he notices Waylon staring, his shoulders raise and he stands straighter, eyebrows returning to his usual thoughtful scowl. Waylon looks back down at the photos, tearing up photo after photo of himself in separate states of distress and agony. The paper rips easy, and falls heavy.

"Park," Miles says with a cough.

Waylon doesn't look up. _I should have listened. I should have listened._ He doesn't stop moving his hands.

"Park?" Miles says, louder. _I should have listened to you._

Miles grabs the photo Waylon was in the middle of tearing apart from his hands. Waylon flinches. The photo is of Miles, grimy and frightened, scaling a ledge in what Waylon recognized as the prison block. The rip separates Miles' legs from his torso.

"Forget the photos, Park, they already have our faces."

 _Our faces._ Familiar numbness buzzes at Waylon's fingertips. He tries to keep himself grounded, eyes flicking up to focus on Miles' face. Tired eyes scowl at him. Miles grabs Waylon's arm, leading him back into the house. Waylon doesn't fight him, trying to keep up with Miles' fast pace as they trudge through the yard. _Maybe he'll kill me this time. Save us all the hassle._

Miles, instead of killing him, sat Waylon on the living room couch. Static ringing in his head, Waylon scanned through the chaos. What was once a comfortable, loving home was now filled with broken glass and destroyed furniture. Waylon holds his head in his hands. _I may as well have destroyed this place myself_. Behind him, he hears Frank and Miles exchange loud yells. Unable to focus on the words, Waylon counts the shards of broken glass on the floor. He loses track at 26, when he notices a small, twisted pellet in the debris. He picks up the pellet. It's twisted, and mangled, no bigger than the fingernail on his pinkie, warm between his fingers. On one end, he see's a number stretched, making it unrecognizable. _It's a spent bullet._

_"What if your kids were here? They'd be dead. And it would have been your fault. You're lucky Lisa and Frank are still alive."_

Movement in the corner of his eye, and Frank takes the hole - ridden loveseat on his right. Lisa comes around as well, plopping herself down next to Waylon, the couch sinking from the force. The bullet flies out of Waylon's hand, bouncing away and under the loveseat across. Miles walks into view, hands on his hips, pacing the middle of the living room.

"We need to be smart about this," Frank says, "We should work on a story."

"You and Lisa were expecting Waylon home," Miles states, pacing, "He brought me with him. Under threat of death, you let me hide out until the these assholes showed up. That's your story," he runs his injured hands down his face, "But fucking _forget_ your story. They're fucking hunting Waylon," Miles points with his right hand, index finger missing, so it appears he just thrusts a fist in Waylon's direction.

"What do you mean hunted?" Lisa asks, voice shaking.

Waylon's stomach churns, edges of his vision blurring with tears, fear tugging at his gut, forcing it into a stone in his throat.

"You know what it means. They had photos of him in the vans," Miles stops, hands waving, "They won't stop until they have him -"

_Don't say it. Please, don't say it. I'm begging you._

"Or until he's _dead_."

Waylon cracks. Miles may as well have taken his head off with a sledgehammer. His life, his home, his family, all of it, gone. Gone the moment he hit SEND on his work laptop two months before _. I ruined my children's lives, my wife's life, the lives of everyone I know._ Waylon's head falls between his knees, choking out a sob. His mouth quivers as he feels the room spin. Static rings loud in his head, cold brushing over his back, body numbing.

Waylon feels weightless. The couch falls away. He peeks through the cracks of his fingers. The living room has disappeared, glass and debris dust, floating in a room of blackness. Dark emptiness. There's a flicker of white, and static appears. It shifts in a cloud, writhing soundlessly, until it forms two legs, two arms, a torso, and a head. Detail takes shape, outlines of eyes and creases of a face. Each hand grows four fingers instead of five. With a final blur, Waylon covers his eyes as a flash blinds him. In front of him was a totally white, unsaturated Miles, a porcelain statue floating in the emptiness. His mouth moves soundlessly, forming words Waylon can't hear. His teeth and tongue are black, eyes hollow shadows drilled into his head. He gives Waylon a slow shake of his head, hands waving.

His hollow, angry voice echoes in the emptiness.

_"We have to leave."_

 

  
-

 

  
Miles watched powerlessly as Waylon slipped into an episode. Miles saw his light eyes take on a glassy look, body slouch. _Good fucking lord, can we have one conversation without Park leaving during it?_

Billy is leaning against the arm rest of the couch, playing with his fingers.

"We have to leave," It hurts to say, "Waylon can't stay here."

Lisa shatters. Soundless tears rolls down her cheeks as she protectively smooths her hands over Waylon's back. It breaks Miles' heart, makes his gut wretch. Lisa shakes her head.

"He's not leaving," She says, adamant, "I'm not going to let them run us out of our home."

Miles' wrenching gut pits itself, anger coming to a boil. He wants to thrash the house apart. He takes a deep, shaky breath. _Stay calm. This is hard for her. This is her husband._

"You see all this?" gestures to the room, to the body laying in the kitchen, to the broken windows. This mess makes what Billy did to the garage look like nothing, "You think this is bad?"

Miles grimaces with a shake of his head, "This happened because I was here. If I wasn't, you would all be dead. Or, better yet, they would have taken you, and they would have taken your kids. These aren't people. They're fucking monsters. They'll kill and kidnap whoever they need to to get their own way."

Lisa's face flushes red, face tightening. She coaxes Waylon's head to rest on her chest, holding him close. Her eyes pierce pure hatred into Miles' body.

"It's hard, it's fucking _hard_ , but if Waylon doesn't leave...your family is _dead_."

Miles glances at Frank, who immediately looks down at his feet. Lisa also avoids his gaze, staring down at the floor, Waylon holding her with his arms around her waist. The room falls into a stressed silence, each second of nothing being said edging Miles into irritation.

"We don't have time to think this over," Miles bites, "It's either he leaves or he doesn't."

With that, Miles crosses the living room, going back outside onto the porch. It's late morning now, the air cool. _A perfect morning, if your perfect morning involves disemboweling a bunch of armed - to - the - teeth assholes._

It didn't scare Miles that he felt nothing towards the violence. These men wouldn't have given him a second chance, so why should he?

Billy is already waiting down the road, by the parked vans. Miles strides to the vans.

"Hopefully none of the neighbours have called the police before we have," Billy says, cocking his head.

"Shit, Billy," Miles grumbles, " _Shit._ "

"It's not fair," Billy says, "Waylon shouldn't be forced to leave his family."

"Yeah, Hope, I'm fully aware of how utterly Goddamn horrible and unfair this shit is. You don't have to say it."

Billy recedes without another word, dissipating and filtering back into Miles' mind.

" _Fuck_ this," Miles approaches the intact van. He studies the Blackjaw symbol on the side, "You proud of yourselves, assholes? Fuckin' pigs."

Miles runs a hand over the vans side. Looking closer, the silver emblem is not a painted symbol like Miles originally thought, but more of a magnet. Miles scrapes his fingernails over the edge, seeing silver lift. Miles scowls. Assholes can spring for military - grade weaponry, but not custom paint jobs? In one quick movement, Miles ripped the magnet off the van. It's heavy, and falls to the dirt in a cloud.

Miles' mouth quirks into a closed - lipped, half - grin.

"My Jeep is destroyed. We can't take the Park's car. Frank won't give us that fancy BMW of his. What does this look like to you, Billy?"

There's a few seconds of nothing, before Billy's voice rings clear.

"A getaway van."

 

  
-

 

  
Lisa sits on the edge of the bed, watching Waylon pack his things. He's already changed out of his bloodied clothes, in an almost identical pair of jeans and a white long sleeve. His canvas jacket was dry, and he let that lay on the bed. They brought out an overnight bag they had used during the move. Waylon shoved in different pairs of pants, shirts, and underwear - all different shades of white, brown, and green.

"I don't want to leave," Waylon scrapes as he packs his duffle bag, back turned to his wife. He's afraid to look at her, "I don't want to. _You know I don't want to._ "

"I know, Baby, I know," Lisa responds, "But you have to," Her voice is distant. _Scared_. Her words cut into Waylon's spine, dragging up into the back of his head.

"I'm sorry. _I'm so sorry._ "

That's all Waylon's been able to say for the past few days. _I'm sorry_. Like anything he offered was good enough to fix the problems he caused. It's too late for his apologies now. Now, his boys were fatherless, and his wife was left alone to pick up the mess he left behind. How will she explain this to them? How can a mother tell her sons that their father abandoned them?

Waylon doesn't hear her stand from the bed, or slowly pace to him. He feels two razors dig into his back. He spins around, sees Lisa, and deflates. Tears start to well when he sees the dark circles under Lisa's eyes, mouth pressed tight. Waylon throws his duffle to the ground, grabbing her into a hug. His face buries itself into the top of her head. He feels like he's hugged an iron maiden, but his pain is nothing compared to how _despaired_ Lisa looks.

Waylon has heard Lisa cry before - she's human, and like all humans, she cries, but _nothing_ Waylon has ever heard compares to the wails he hears. Her form shakes violently, every wall within her crumbling as she grips onto the back of Waylon's shirt. _She's so brave, so strong. She's worth a thousand mothers._

_And I don't deserve her._

As he's lost in his thoughts, Lisa pulls away, face puffy and red. She strokes a fiery hand down Waylon's cheek. He flinches. Just like they have a thousand times before, Lisa stands on her toes, and kisses Waylon with lips sharp as glass. Pushing through the pain, Waylon reciprocates. He can't taste blood, but he can taste her cigarettes, and the sour taste of _fear._

"I love you," Waylon says between kisses, "I love you. _I'm sorry,_ I love you."

Lisa has her arms around Waylon's neck, pulling him backwards towards the bed. Lisa's knees hit the edge of the bed, and she falls back, Waylon toppling over her.

_I'm leaving her behind. Who knows when I'll see her again. I'll give her everything I have, even if I have nothing left to give._

Lisa pulls Waylon down by his neck to kiss him cuttingly, laying open - mouthed sears along his neck. Tears rolls down Waylon's cheeks. Lisa attempts to wipe the tears from his face, but Waylon jerks his head away at the contact. _Too close to my eyes_. Lisa sheds her clothes quickly, catching Waylon's lips in a burning kiss. Waylon whimpers.

One of Lisa's hand trail down his stomach, pawing at the front of his jeans. Waylon jerks his hips up and away. _Please, don't touch me. Let me do this. Please._

Waylon keeps his eyes closed as he runs his hands over Lisa's body. _If I can't see her, I won't imagine anything other than her. I won't have to think about anything else._

Waylon loves Lisa. He loves her more than any man ever could. He can't understand why he feels so _tainted_.

Feeling her warm, familiar skin, Waylon breaks their kiss, ghosting his lips down her neck. Going lower, he kisses down the middle of her chest, over her stomach. When he dips lower, Lisa's legs move out from under Waylon's hands. Waylon can't see her, but he feels the heat of her thighs retreat. Waylon edges off the bed, kneeling down, supporting himself on his good leg.

Blood beats hard against his eardrums as Waylon kisses Lisa's slit. He can barely hear her whimpers. She moans ad his tongue laps at her opening, slick dribbling down his chin. He sucks on her clit, listening to her jerk her hips up. _Use me. It's the last thing I'll ever be able to do for you._

Lisa moans out his name, hands threading painfully through Waylon's hair.

Waylon can't remember the last time he did this for his wife. _This is probably why Frank was here_ , Waylon thinks _, I wasn't there enough for her._

Minutes passed, and Waylon's legs started to burn from supporting himself on the wooden floor. His left leg throbs painfully. Months before, Waylon could have spent hours between Lisa's legs. He could barely stand ten minutes, kneeling down hurt so bad.

Lisa's sounds go quiet, gripping Waylon's hair as her hips stutter. Waylon stays still obediently as she grinds her end out in his mouth. _I love you. I love you with all my heart._

The room falls into hot silence. Waylon peels back, feeling a string of cum breaking. He doesn't dare open his eyes.

Waylon feels Lisa grip the back of his shirt. She pulls him up. With her cum still on his tongue, Waylon is pulled into a cutting kiss. He tries to relax into her, but his body stays tense. _I love you. Please, believe me, I love you. I'm so sorry._

"Look at me, Waylon," Lisa breathes.

Waylon dips his forehead low, trying to rest in the crook of Lisa's neck. He misses, eyes still shut, and instead rests his head into the sheets behind her. He doesn't know how to explain to her that he _can't_.

There's a knock on the closed bedroom door.

 


	25. Goodbyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Act One: Finished

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOW.......alright ok yes! We got there we got to the end of Act one. I'm planning on making three acts, the second act detailing more of Miles' family history
> 
> Also.....this fic hit 1011 views! Thank u all so much for reading, and especially for everyone who stayed so far. I hope you enjoy the direction this fic goes, and stick with it <3

"Park? We don't have all day," Miles says through the closed door.

_I don't care if he hates me for it. We don't have time for him to sit and space out for a few hours - we have to leave now before Murkoff finds out their goons are dead._

There's a shuffling of clothing, and Lisa opens the door. Her cheeks are red, eyes watery. She watches him with a scowl. Looking over her shoulder, Miles sees Waylon quickly scoop up items from the dressers and shove them into a dark duffle.

"I'm sorry," Miles says, voice low as he looks back down to Lisa, "If there was another way, I would have told you already. I'm sorry."

Lisa's tone is cold, "He'll be out in a few minutes."

She slams the door in his face.

Miles runs his tongue over his teeth, biting back frustration.

"Be nice," Billy warns.

"I got it," Miles spits, trudging back down the stairs.

Miles had already cleared the Blackjaw van out of all of the weapons and equipment, plus pulled off the cheap magnets of their symbol, piling it in the other van, along with Matheson's unconscious body. _Billy said he'd be out for another few hours, but you can never be too careful_. It's been thirty minutes already, and there was neither hide nor hair of any backup, or police sirens speeding down the road. That did nothing to ease Miles. Murkoff liked a clean, fast sweep. _They'll be sending people any minute now._

Miles grabs his duffle, stepping out onto the porch and making his way down to the van. He neatly packed up his and Waylon's cameras and binders, and changed out of his ripped clothes. _Running out of outfits here_ , Miles thinks bitterly. He did his best to wash the blood and matter from his body in less than five minutes. As an extra precaution, Miles took the battery out of his phone.

He switched the license plates of the van with his own Jeep's, Billy quickly reducing the van's original plates to thin metal shards. Miles kicked the shards away.

"Smart," Billy remarked, "They'll be looking for the red car with your plates."

"Or," Miles had said, "They'll be on the hunt for the van with it's original plates."

Miles dumped his duffle into the back of the van. It was spacious, with six seats in the back, lining the body, a black locker between each seat. There was no center console between the driver and passenger seat. Billy turns his head from the passenger seat. He flicks the radio dial on.

"Radio works," Miles hears both Billy and the radio say. Billy quickly shuts the radio back off, head twisting back towards the house.

Exiting the back of the van, Miles sees that Frank and Lisa are both on the front steps. Both their eyes are trained on Miles.

Miles shuts the back doors of the van.

As he stepped onto the porch, Lisa broke out a single cigarette, lighting it. She takes a long, exhausted drag.

"When we leave - when you can't see the van in the road anymore - you need to call the police. I threatened to kill you, so you sheltered me until these guys showed up. I killed everyone. Waylon disappeared and you don't know where he went."

Frank and Lisa nod in agreement. Frank's eyes are fixed on him. Lisa is still staring down at the road.

Miles swallows the semi - guilty pit in his throat.

"Listen," He begins, trying to catch Lisa's attention, "I want to thank you for all you've done for me. You let me stay here, and you didn't have to. I'm sorry. I can't say I'm sorry enough for this."

Lisa won't meet his eye, taking another long drag, "I can't say I completely blame you for all this. Waylon - _we_ , knew Murkoff was no good. They would have come, eventually," her eyes look to Frank, "I'm just sorry you got involved."

Frank shrugs, "I can walk scot - free. I won't forget anything that happened here, but my life isn't tied to this hick town," he sticks a hand out, "Good luck out there, alright? Don't let Waylon die."

Miles shakes Frank's hands with a hard grip, "He won't."

"Take care of my husband, Miles," Lisa says, blowing smoke.

The front door opens, and Waylon steps out, duffle over his shoulder. His demeanor is shy, _embarassed_ , clothes disheveled.

"I'll be in the car whenever you're ready," Miles says with a pat on Waylon's arm.

Miles steps back down the yard to the van, climbing into the driver's seat. _Fuck, I feel like a dwarf up here_. He fixes the seat so he's sitting straighter, and closer to the wheel. The key is still in the ignition. He turns it, the van coming smoothly to life.

"Full tank of gas. At least there's one thing going our way," Miles says to himself, eyes dragging back to the front porch.

Waylon's head ducks down, turning his body towards Lisa. Miles is too far away to make out any conversation. He watches silently as the couple converses with each other. Waylon gives Lisa a long, long hug, and a chaste kiss to the side of her head. Miles can see his body shake from the road. Miles' chest sinks.

Then Waylon turns to Frank, wiping his face. It doesn't take a genius to know he's crying. Frank says something long - winded, but is cut off when Waylon drops his duffle and gives him a hug. Frank reciprocates the hug, eyes closing.

Miles turns his head straight, grip tightening on the wheel, chest feeling empty.

 

 

-

 

 

Waylon wordlessly crosses the yard. _Don't look back. Lisa wouldn't want you to. Don't look back_. He opens the back of the van, throwing his duffle next to Miles'. He then rounds the van, climbing into the passenger seat.

_Don't look back. Don't look back._

He slams the van door, eyes fixed on Miles.

 _I should be angry_ , Waylon thinks, _I should be more than angry._

But all Waylon can feel is deep, deep sadness thrash inside him, emotions raked raw.

Miles jerks the wheel, the van pulling into the driveway, then quickly peeling out onto the road.

_Don't look up, don't look up._

Waylon looks up.

His wife is staring down with tired, dead eyes. Their gazes lock, and Waylon sees the slightest twitch of her lips, grimacing. She ducks her head away.

_She hates me._

As they peel away, Waylon makes it twenty seconds.

_"I love you," Waylon said as he held her tight on the porch, "I'll be back soon. This is only for a little while. I'll be back. I love you."_

What the fuck did he know? He had no idea when he would be back. He curls into his lap, leg throbbing from pain and stress. He doesn't try to stifle his sobs. _I'm leaving them behind. My wife, the boys -_

The boys.

Waylon sits back immediately, wiping his face.

"My sons - they're still at school," he looks at Miles, "I have to see them. _I can't leave without seeing them._ "

Waylon can only image the boys' heartbroken faces. Them, sitting in their rooms, tearing apart photos of them with their father. He can hear them yell at him _, 'I hate you. I hate you.'_

Miles' face softens, glancing at Waylon through his peripherals. He shifts in his seat.

"Where's the school?" Miles asks him, voice soft.

Waylon tries to keep himself together as he directs Miles through their town. Multiple police vehicles whirled past them, heading in the direction they came from. Waylon tried not whimper so loudly. _I'm really a handful to be stuck with. He must hate me. He has to after this._

Miles pulls into the roundabout in front of the school. The Pinewood Summit middle school is small, just on the edge of town. The local highschool is almost thirty minutes away, in the next town over, to the East.

_I was going to watch my boys graduate from here, from highschool. I won't get that chance now._

Miles puts the car in park, engine still on.

"Take your time," he says, staring straight.

Waylon exhales, "Thank you. _Thank you."_

He exits the car.

The woman at the front desk was kind. Waylon told her he needed to speak to his sons, in private. When she asked what for, Waylon quickly rushed out an excuse about a family emergency, something private. She escorted him to an unoccupied classroom, telling him to wait there while she fetched the boys.

Waylon sat in a small, plastic chair. The colorful posters on the walls, and chalkboard filled with simple equations, made Waylon nervous. _I feel like I'm back in middle school, in trouble for disrupting class_. He closes his eyes.

Waylon didn't know how long he sat there before Ricky and Ben burst through the room. Ricky closes the door behind him.

"What happened?" Ricky asks as Ben gives Waylon a hug. In the small plastic chair, Waylon is shorter than Ben.

 _Don't cry. Don't. Show them you can be strong_. Waylon stands, wiping his face, holding Ben half an arms length away.

"Come here, Rick," Waylon says with a sniffle. Ricky does, standing next to Ben. They both stare at Waylon with worried, wide eyes. Ben's eyes well with tears.

"You know I love you two, right?" Waylon says, his voice a ghost in the air.

The boys nod.

"I love you both with _all_ my heart," Waylon inhales a shaky breath, eyes glancing between the two boys, "I have to go away for a while."

"What do you mean ' _go away_?'" Ricky asks, loudly. _He's scared. God almighty, he's scared to fucking death_.

"I have to leave," _Don't be a coward - say it,_ "I have to leave town."

"Where are you going?" Ricky's voice edges into panic.

"Are we coming with? Is Mom coming?" Ben asks.

Waylon shakes his head, forcing down a sob, "You and your mom are staying here. You can't come with me."

" _Why_?" The boys yell in unison.

Waylon drops to his knees, throat constricting, " _Listen_ to me," he begs, _begs_ , " I love you both with _everything_ I have. I always have, and always will. But I did something very, _very_ bad, and people got hurt."

Waylon tries not to grip their shoulders so tightly, "I did something that I thought was right," But was it right? Was the truth - the exposure of evil - worth their family? Their lives? The lives of everyone caught in this mess?

"Now I have to leave."

Ben sobs, mouth quivering. Ricky purses his lips as fat tears fall.

"When will you be back?" Ricky chokes out.

"Soon. It's just for a little while, just until I deal with what I did." _Don't lie to them, please don't lie to them_.

Ben throws his arms around his father in a tight embrace. Ricky shrugs Waylon's hand off his shoulder.

"What did you _do_?" Ricky asks him, kneeling down.

With his free arm, Waylon pulls Ricky into his chest, kissing the top of his head.

"I wish I could tell you. It's hard to explain," _I'm shaking so hard,_ "But people got hurt, and that's why I have to leave."

"Please don't go, Dad," Ben begs him, "I don't want you to go."

Waylon's demeanor cracks, and a loud sob escapes him.

"I have to go. I have to. If I don't go," _They'll kill you,_ "More people will get hurt."

"Is Mom OK?" Ricky asks, slightly muffled against Waylon's chest.

"She's fine, she's at home," Miles takes a deep breath, remembering what Frank told him on the porch, "Uncle Frank is gonna be here for a little while longer."

It hurts, _hurts hurts hurts_ , but Waylon pulls back, "He's gonna pick you up from school today, OK? He's gonna take you out to the mall outside of town, how would you like that?"

Both boy's faces are red and splotchy, wet streaks angling down their cheeks. Waylon bites down on the inside of his cheek.

"I'll be back, OK? I'm not abandoning you. I'll be back in a little while."

Cold, broken _despair_ watches Waylon through the boy's eyes. Waylon kisses their cheeks, standing. His fingers burn when he lets them go.

"I love you. Be good for your mom. I love you."

 

  
-

 

  
Miles taps his left foot against the footrest. His eyes keep glancing at the digital clock on the dashboard. _He's only been in there ten minutes, but it feels like fucking hours in here._ Billy sits in the back, in one of the open seats. His face is grave, and the two sit in stressed silence. Miles attempted to turn the radio on during that time, but all that came through was static.

Miles touches the left corner of his lips, where Waylon had kissed him in the kitchen. It got pushed to the bottom of his priority list, but now that he has a free moment, it's all he could think about. _Fuck, if I didn't know he wasn't, I would have thought he was high...what the fuck did he do that for? Excited about the 'good news?' Had to be, people do weird shit when the adrenaline is pumping._

Still, Miles can't stop thinking about it. He couldn't stop thinking about Waylon's grin, the smile marks at the creases of his eyes, the softness of his lips, how he looked curled up in the basement in that morning light -

 _Shit, you really haven't gotten any in that long, huh? Thinking about any man who throws you a fucking smile_? Besides that, the situation of being on the run from a billion dollar corporation with a private army on speed dial is a less - than - ideal time to pick up men.

Miles shakes the sleepy image of Waylon from his head, gripping the steering wheel.

The front doors of the school fly open, and Waylon quickly paces to the van. He climbs in, slamming the door. He doesn't say a word, but his trembling form betrays him. Waylon turns his head to the window, avoiding Miles' eye.

Miles opens his mouth to speak, but Waylon quickly cuts him off.

"Let's go."

Miles doesn't bother asking if he's alright. Miles pulls the clutch back, peeling out of the roundabout, onto the street.

The van runs in silence as Miles and Waylon peel out of town of Pinewood Summit. Waylon sniffed every minute or so, breaking the tense air. Miles can only imagine the intense pain Waylon must be in. _Survived one Hell, only to be thrown into another._

Miles coughs, trying to grab his attention.

"We're headed North," Miles says, eyes fixed on the road, "Nevada first, where my apartment is. I need to grab some stuff."

Waylon doesn't respond.

The radio flips on, static coming through. Waylon's head slowly turns, revealing to Miles red eyes, and skin pale and sickly. Miles glances into the rearview mirror, seeing Billy's reflected form standing in the back of the van, lips in a tight, sad smile.

The dial turns for a few moments, before a clear song came through.

 

**"No DNA, eating away**

**just show me the proof**

**stars on fire, show me the proof,**

**show me the truth,"**

 

Miles focuses back on the road.

 

 **"Yeah, this is a crime to remember,**  
  
**was broken apart**

**won't go back together,"**

 

Miles slams the dial of the radio off, glaring into the empty rearview mirror.

 


	26. Sun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Act Two: Start

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok i have.....always wanted to do one of those fics where theres song lyrics and shit in each chapter? like i was always a fucking sucker for that shit. i dont want to completely change the mood of the fic, so the songs are scattered, and match the tone of the scene. im gay and love music :(
> 
> anyway, i went totally apeshit on this chapter i thought it would reach 5k but i reeled it back :) oh boy someone fucking help me
> 
> also time? travel? expense? MATH? that shit kicks my ass but we all have to suffer for art sometimes :(
> 
> anyway, thanks for reading! if ur reading i hope you like it

"This is a Grade - A, military, $500,000 van...and there's no GPS," Miles grumbles to himself in his head as he hits the LOCK button on the arm rest of the door.

When Miles drove down to Colorado, he fitted his Jeep with a cheap GPS unit. He didn't stop at any time on his trip, taking 15 hours to reach the Sawache Range. He guesses it will probably take longer with Waylon Park in the passenger seat. He twists to look into the back, seeing Billy stare out through the windows on the back doors of the van.

"It's beautiful here," Billy says. It's the first thing Miles had hear in the glaringly silent two hours they had been driving.

The wasteland of Colorado was beautiful, and if Miles wasn't so concerned with driving, he'd be staring out the window as well. With it's long stretches of dirt, flanked by small rock formations, large sturdy cacti dotted with pink cactus flowers, Colorado was a beautiful place. The late - morning sky was a cornflower blue, not a cloud in sight, the sun a friendly yellow dot. Miles imagined the wildlife the grassland around them hid, coyotes and lizards alike. Miles twists back into to face the road.

Though they were without directions, Miles could partially remember the road back. Following Route 70, heading West, they came across a road sign.

**FRUITA**

**CITY LIMIT**

**ELEV 4498 FT**

Miles glances through his peripherals. Waylon is wide awake, staring out the window. He looks like shit, Miles thinks. Waylon's hand grips tight on his bad leg.

"Your leg hurt, Park?" Miles asks him.

Waylon doesn't look at him, "I can manage."

They drive in silence for another mile until they come to a Walmart, the digital clock reading just after 11 AM.

That always threw Miles for a loop. Long stretches of nothing, before coming to a convenience store or a motel, usually flanked by abandoned buildings, decaying businesses. _Just another reminder the government doesn't give a shit about the collapse of Midwest America._

Miles pulls into the parking lot, parking in a spot all the way in the back, close to the road.

"I need to grab some stuff, do you need anything?"

Waylon shakes his head in an inaudible no.

"Wanna come in with me?"

Waylon shakes his head again.

"I'll leave the car on for you."

With that, Miles opens the door, hopping out. He hits the LOCK button, three times, then slams the door. Miles stretches, taking in the bright Colorado sun, and the cool wind that passed his body. Looking up, Billy is sitting on the top of the van, one leg dangling.

"Keep an eye on him," Miles says, walking through the parking lot.

The first thing Miles does is walk to the in - store ATM. He plugs his card in, withdraws all of his savings _(bills and rent be damned,)_ \- $1,000 - and quickly pockets it. As he shops, he keeps his head down, and his collar popped. He grabs two water gallons, a cheap battery - powered hand radio, a pack of batteries, a map of Utah, and a leg brace and crutch. Miles had already withdrawn $500 cash before he went on his way to Colorado, and so paid with that. He had $406 and some change leftover. More than enough to get them to Nevada, but after that...

_I'll figure it out._

Miles thought it would be easy to simply disappear from the world. It'll be less than easy now with Waylon attached to his hip. _Like I have any right to complain - I asked him to come with me._

Before he leaves, he grabs two baseball caps and a bag of pretzels, paying for them and quickly exiting the store. He puts one of the baseball caps - the black one - on, leaving a faded denim one in the bag.

Billy is laying back on the top of the van, legs crossed and hands behind his head.

"Nice day, right?" Miles comments.

Billy sits up, "It's very nice. I've never seen the sky so blue."

Miles grunts in agreement as he hops into the driver's seat. He tosses Waylon the bags, slamming the door and locking it, "Do you have to go to the bathroom or - "

"I'm fine," Waylon says, voice hoarse, "Let's just go."

Miles straps himself in, then peels away, following Route 70 again. Waylon digs through the bags. Miles watches him take out the crutch and brace.

"Merry _Hell_ , Miles, you didn't have to - "

"Well I did."

"Please, I don't need it - "

"No, you do _need_ it Park. It'll relieve the pressure on your leg. You won't be in pain as much."

Waylon scoffs, "You could've grabbed a bottle of Advil!"

Miles scoffs back, "Advil is twenty bucks a bottle - physical equipment is the better investment."

"Please don't waste your money on me - you need it. I only have - "

"Don't worry about money, Park. You think I'm gonna ask _you_ to pay me back?" Miles shakes his head, "Don't worry about it."

Turning his head, Waylon's face is flushed, staring down at the crutch and brace.

"Thank you," Waylon says. Miles bites back a satisfied smile. Waylon tucks the equipment under his seat, digging through the rest. He takes out the hat, studying it, before putting it on. He takes out the radio out, "What's this for?"

"For Billy," Miles responds, "He can already speak through the car radio, but we can't be hanging out in this thing all day. It'll be easier for you to talk to him. Switch it on."

Miles feels a gentle sifting in the back of his head. _Excited, Billy?_

Waylon flicks the dial on the side, the radio buzzing with static. There's white noise, then the dial turns on it's own. Waylon holds the portable radio an arms length away, eyes wide. Billy switches through channels, before his voice rings clear.

"Smart, Upshur, very smart," Billy says, "It's awkward to be communicating through a third party."

"Well," Miles begins, "It's not fair to Waylon, either. He should get to know you. We're..."

_Partners? No, too intimate._

"Teammates?" Waylon suggests.

"Teammates, yeah," Miles agrees.

Billy switches the hand radio off, the car radio turning on. A friendly female voice came through.

_".......st an hour ago, the Murkoff Corporation Public Relations Head, Jude Rawlings, issued an official statement about what the world is calling The Mount Massive Incident. Here is just a snippet of a long - winded conference."_

Another voice, male, airy and friendly, came through. Miles could feel a thousand - dollar - smile behind the words.

_"We at the Murkoff Corporation know this...evidence, to be completely Staged. Human mutilation? Nanotechnology? C'mon, people, this is real life! We don't live in a horror movie - things like that don't happen! The videos were obviously manufactured by two deeply disturbed people. We already have the two names, and are working diligently to contact them."_

The conference is cut off, the friendly woman coming back, " _Despite what Mr. Rawlings says....we all know the truth, don't we? Experts from across the globe have already watched the videos - I watched them, despite how horrific they are, and let me tell you, every single one of those experts say the graphics are unedited. You can't fake inhumanity like that. Murkoff wants this buried with a smile. Let's let them dig their own graves. This is Susie Sunshine, bringing you the best news, and the best music, from this side of the country."_

Susie cuts off, and through the radio comes a soft guitar rift.

Miles laughs, "Fucking _get 'em_ , Susie!"

"Murkoff's not in the public's good graces anymore, looks like," Waylon says.

"Were they ever?" Miles says, "Fuck," It felt good - more than good, it felt _euphoric_ to hear people know the truth about Murkoff. _These assholes are six feet deep - and the world is pissing on their graves. I've been telling people this shit for years...all it took was some human rights violations on American soil. I should have guessed they had shit like this going on earlier._

Miles turns the loud radio down, just in time to hear Waylon's stomach grumble. Miles huffs a laugh, "Hungry, Park?"

Waylon grins, shy, "A little."

The van passes through the town of Fruita. Miles passes retail chain after retail chain, gift shop after gift shop, before coming to a small McDonalds. Miles orders through the drive through. He orders three burgers, a large soda, and two pack of fries. He pulls into the parking lot, throwing the bag into Waylon's lap. Waylon can't stop thanking him. Miles tells him it's no big deal.

"Which one is yours?" Waylon asks, taking out a wrapped burger.

"None of it - I'm not hungry."

Miles hasn't felt hungry in two days. In fact, he feels strangely full. He's usually a stress eater (more specifically, a stress _drinker,)_ but an appetite escapes him.

He watches, hypnotized as Waylon devours the contents of the bag. _A mangy coyote thrown a few raw steaks_.

They sit there for twenty minutes, the radio on with soft rock playing through. When he's finished, Waylon neatly packs the garbage away, hopping out of the van to throw his trash out. While he's out, Miles reaches over to grab the map of Utah. When Waylon enters again, Miles opens the map up, handing it to Waylon.

"I knew the route going to Colorado, but I'll have trouble making it back," Miles tells him, watching Waylon sip his soft drink, "You can read a map, right?"

Waylon looks taken aback, "Of _course_ I know how to read a map."

"Alright, _Boyscout_ ," Miles says, pulling out of the McDonalds parking lot and back onto Route 70, "You'll be my eyes and ears when we cross state lines."

They chit - chat along the way through Fruita, not stopping as they cross over the state line into Utah. The day is uneventful, and after a stretch of silence, Miles looks over to see Waylon fast asleep in the passenger seat. Guilt tugs at Miles' stomach. He still can't believe Waylon agreed to come with him. Waylon made the decision to pick himself up from his life, and go on the run. Away from his family. With _Miles_.

 _Maybe this guy is crazier than I thought_. He switches the radio to a rock station, turning the volume all the way up.

Ozzy Osborne comes blaring out, jolting Waylon from his nap. His body jerks, and Waylon stumbles over his words, snapping towards Miles.

"What? What? What's happening?" Waylon covers his ears, "God, why is it so _loud_?"

"Wake up, Boyscout. You're supposed to be my guide, remember?" Miles says, turning the radio back down.

Waylon grabs the open map from the dashboard, "I'm sorry."

"Stop apologizing so damn much," Miles glances at the clock. It's 2 PM, "What's the next big city?"

"Uhh..." Waylon opens the map up wider, searching through, "Uh...Salina."

"Here's the plan," Miles tells him, motioning with his right hand, his left still on the wheel, "We're gonna stop there for the night, at some cheap motel, and leave early in the morning, alright?"

Waylon is still studying the map.

"Park?" Miles snaps.

"Yeah...yeah, alright," Waylon flattens the map against the dashboard, meek, "Sorry. That's fine, whatever you want to do."

Two hours later, they arrive at a dusted red motel building, roof tinted brown, matching brown doors dotted evenly along the building. The Utah sun hangs a little lower in the sky, yellow gently seeping into orange. Off to the side of the main building, a small square dusty red - colored office sits. Miles pulls into the front of the motel. The parking lot is fairly full with other cars.

"Here we are."

 

 

-

 

  
_Pay attention. Make yourself useful, don't give him any reason to leave you behind. Show you're worth keeping around. Don't make him regret it._

Waylon decides, even though he could trust Miles (and Billy,) he would have to tread lightly. Despite his broad, brave demeanor, Miles hid a deep anger. A gas can, and any action or word spoken was a spark that threatened to turn him aflame. It _terrified_ Waylon.

It also let Waylon know that he was probably nowhere safer.

_Two sides of the same coin. Miles is strong, and wrathful, and I'm...._

An idiot? A complete fool who put his moral fiber above the lives of his family? Ever since they left Pinewood Summit, Waylon has felt _empty_. Empty, and ashamed. He can still see the pained look in Lisa's eyes, the resentment in his boy's faces. But what other choice did he have? He could either stay, and have all of their lives risked, or he could leave. Lisa would pretend she hasn't seen him. Murkoff would leave them _alone_.

At least, Waylon hopes. Murkoff is after _him_. It would be up to Lisa to convince anyone who came to her that she didn't know where he was. Waylon is confident in her ability.

Miles pulls up to a large tacky motel, red like the dust of the Midwest. A sign on a small side - building reads THE DUSKY SUN MOTEL. Underneath the sign, bright red neon letters light up the word VACANT. Glancing quickly at the digital clock, it's twenty after 4 PM. Miles parks the van, shutting the engine off.

"Here we are," Miles says, "Come on, let's go check in."

Waylon steps carefully out of the van, stretching his stiff body out. _I'll try on the brace in the room_. Waylon feels slightly embarrassed that Miles thought of that, his chest slightly swelling with warmth. Miles didn't have to do that, but he did. Waylon wants to say it's because he's more of a hindrance without any assistance, but in the pit of his chest, Waylon knows it's because Miles cares about him, in the same way a close friend would.

Both he and Miles walk into the square of the check in building. It's a small, thirty - by - thirty feet building, the inside walls painted a soft pink, decorated with decaying and rumpled black - and - white photographs, a few chairs against the walls. A bored, older man with tan skin and white hair stares at an open newspaper. The newspaper's headline reads:

**FACT OR FAKED? DISTURBING EVIDENCE SURFACES AGAINST THE MURKOFF CORPORATION.**

Waylon keeps his head down, pulls his hat lower, shoving his hands into his pockets.

The man looks up, folding the newspaper up, "Evening, gentleman," he greets with a yellowed smile, "Looking to check in?"

"Evening," Miles greets, leaning against the counter, "Just for the night, thank you."

Waylon distracts himself by staring at the photos on the walls. One particularly catches his eye - a coyote, peeking around a tall agave plant, as if it were watching the photographer.

"Well, unfortunately, we only have single rooms left over tonight."

Waylon turns his head. Miles' back is to him, and Waylon watches his shoulder slump.

"Busy night, then? _Damn_...." he turns back. Waylon notices that his hands are folded together, covering his missing fingers, "Single rooms only, Park."

"That's fine," Waylon says, without missing a beat.

Miles faces the man again, "Done then. How much?"

"$150 for the night," the man says.

Waylon hears Miles exhale, hearing the shuffling of cash, "Damn, no wonder this place is packed. Fair prices, and it really is a nice place. I love the color scheme."

Waylon hides a grin at Miles' schmoozing.

The man smiles wider, "Well, thank you. My wife always wanted to paint this place white, but I convinced her the red was more charming."

"Very charming, glad it's not white," Miles agrees.

There's an exchange of cash, the jingle of keys, and Miles escorts Waylon out of the check in. Miles gives Waylon the key. It's a small, worn metal key with a red tag attached to the end, a painted 7.

"Go to the room," Miles says, "I'll get our things."

Waylon nods in agreement, heading to a brown door with a brass 7 on it. The key fits perfectly in the lock.

Turning on a light switch on the wall, the motel room is a faint yellow color. Paintings of wildlife and nature decorate the walls. Waylon steps inside, the soft brown carpet muffling his steps. On both sides of the head of the bed, sat two weathered bedside tables. On the table closest to the entrance of the room, sat a phone. The queen - sized bed is dressed in a soft - looking pink blanket.

 _Wait_.

"There's only one bed," Waylon realizes. He takes a deep breath. _He said it was a single - why are you surprised?_

"Behind," Waylon hears. He steps to the side, Miles shoveling in their two duffle bags, and the plastic Walmart bags, into the room. He shuts the door.

"Oh," Miles says, hands on his hips, looking around the room, "Cute."

Miles closes the door, bolting it and locking it. He then goes to the windows, opening them, then closing them, then locking them. He then closes the warm red curtains, hiding the evening sun. He goes back to the door, fiddling with the locks.

_Grow up, Waylon, the bed's big enough for the both of you. Don't make things weird._

While Miles is studying the locks, Waylon unpacks his things. He still has his wallet and his dead cellphone. He left Lisa his wedding ring. _It's better that way. I won't be reminded of my failure as a husband and father so much_. Deciding he doesn't need to take anything out, Waylon places his duffle on the floor, shoving off his hat and shrugging off his coat. He sits on the edge of the bed, untying his boots.

Miles opened a door across from the bed. It was thin, and wooden, with a small Route 70 sign on the front. It led to the bathroom.

"Bathroom's not disgusting," Miles calls, "You wanna go first?"

The thought of himself, exposed, shakes Waylon at his core. He quickly shakes his head.

" _No_ , no you go ahead," Waylon's hands crawl underneath his sleeves, scratching at his skin.

Miles waves his hands, "Come on, Park, you gotta shower at some point."

_Cold water beats against his bruises, washes away the sweat and -_

"You want me to wait by the door?"

" _What_?"

Miles jerks a thumb at the open bathroom, "If you're worried about someone bursting in and killing you, I could just...wait by the door."

 _He's joking. He's joking. He's playing with me_ , "No, no I don't need - "

" 'Cuz I'll do it. If that makes you comfortable, I'll wait outside. I'm serious. I'm not joking."

Waylon scratches harder at his arms. There's no smile on Miles' face, no hint of entertainment. The scrunch of his brows show Waylon _worry_. Waylon's empty chest fills slightly.

"You don't think I'm pathetic for it?"

Miles' shoulders drop, "Of course I don't," Miles holds out his hand, motioning for Waylon to take it.

Waylon eyes Miles, his hand. His brain says _Don't_. He pushes that aside. _Miles wouldn't hurt me. He wouldn't do anything like that. I can trust him._

Miles'' hand is warm and friendly. He hauls Waylon up, leading him into the bathroom. Miles stands in the doorway.

"I'm gonna sit just outside the door, alright? I'll be right up on it. Nobody is gonna come in here, alright?" Miles looks behind him, approaching Waylon's duffle. He hands Waylon a fresh shirt and underwear, "Remember, I'm right outside, alright?"

Waylon nods, swallowing the shameful pit in his throat, "You're right outside. OK."

Miles shuts the door.

Waylon grabs a bar of cheap soap. Trying to ignore the buzzing of his body, Waylon throws his clean clothes on the vanity, keeping his eyes shut as he undresses, letting his clothes drop to the floor. _As long as I don't open my eyes, I won't think about it. I won't have to see myself._ He drags his hand along the wall, feeling the shower curtain. He peels the curtain back, feeling around for a handle. He only feels one, branded into the wall, and pushes it halfway to the left. The shower flows, hitting the bottom of the tub. Waylon climbs inside.

The water is almost painfully hot, stinging his skin. He rubs along his arms, over his shoulders, the hot water loosening the knots in his muscles. He leans more onto his right leg, smoothing back his hair.

Waylon spends a good twenty minutes in the shower, cleaning himself inside and out, skin rubbed raw from the hot water and the force he used to scrub, never opening his eyes. His shot nerves shook, prickling down his spine. _Miles it out there. Trust him. He wouldn't let anyone in._

Turning off the shower, Waylon carefully steps out of the shower, grabbing a clean towel hanging from a towel bar on the side. He wipes himself down quickly, pulling on the pair of boxer - briefs and the t - shirt Miles grabbed for him. Taking a steady breath, Waylon's eyes are still closed when he opens the door.

Waylon cracks an eye open, shoulders slouching in relief when he sees that it's just Miles, alone, the room still in the same condition he left it in. There's no rot, or a hint of change. Miles is sitting comfortably on the edge of the bed, a change of clothes in his lap.

"See? Wasn't so bad, Park," Miles tells him, voice light.

Waylon looks away quickly. _God, you really are the biggest coward on this side of the planet._ Without a word, Waylon crosses the room, settling on the edge of the bed closest to the window.

Miles silently stepped into the bathroom, closing the door.

As soon as he does, Waylon grabs the hand radio, switching it on.

"Billy?" Waylon calls quietly. He hears the shower run.

The dial twists under Waylon's fingers.

"Hi Waylon," Billy says.

It's still strange, knowing that there's a hidden third traveling with him and Miles, but Waylon is otherwise unperturbed.

"Are there...any updates? On us?"

Waylon wanted to know. It wasn't obsessive, but knowing the truth of the situation gave Waylon some semblance of peace. It allowed them to plan their movements, move around Murkoff. There's no way Murkoff has any chance to hide their secrets anymore, not with the whole world watching them.

"A few," Billy confirms, "Other than the country thinking Murkoff is full of it, there's reports of strange black vans with silver eagles on the sides around the Midwest."

Waylon's chest sinks, " _Shit_. Anywhere specific?"

"Colorado," Billy says, "In Colorado Springs. They're headed North."

"At least they aren't following us," Waylon says, peeling back the blankets of the bed, climbing in.

"I'm wondering what they're thinking," Billy confesses, "Why go North? To cut us off?"

"I don't know," Waylon says, clutching the radio tight, "Is....is there anything on me? My family?"

"No," Billy assures him, "Nothing from that region, either."

Waylon breathes a sigh of relief, "OK, OK."

"Don't worry, Waylon," Billy's layered voice says, gentle, "They'll be OK. As long as you stay away."

But for how long? It hurt Waylon knowing that it would be weeks before he'd be able to return home....

If at all.

_No. Don't think like that. You'll see them, soon. You just have to wait until everything cools down._

The bathroom door opens. Miles ruffles his hair with a white towel. He's wearing a tight tank top and a pair of boxer - briefs. His underwear is tight around his thighs, hair in dark swatches over his legs and arms, pink scars cutting through. His shoulders are much more broad out in the open, strong arms holding the towel around his neck. Above a slightly pudgy stomach, the scorch mark on his chest peeks out from under his low - cut top. The orange light of the bathroom behind him gives him a warm and friendly halo glow. Waylon looks down at the radio. _Don't be weird, don't be weird, don't be weird._

"What time is it?" Miles asks.

"Just past five," Billy answers. Miles' eyes are drawn to the right edge of the bed.

" _Fuck_ , I'm _exhausted_ ," Miles gives his hair another shake with the towel, throwing it into the bathroom, shutting the bathroom light off, "Would it bother you if I turned in early, Park?"

"Of course not," Waylon says, pulling the blanket over his legs, radio still clutched in his hands. _I could use the sleep, too_. He watches Miles check the locks of the doors and windows again.

"They're locked, Upshur," Billy assures.

" _Just checking_ ," Miles says with a jiggle of the door handle. He shuts the light switch off, rounding the bed. Waylon feels the right side of the bed dip, Miles shuffling under the covers.

"Goodnight Waylon," Miles says, his back turned.

Waylon places the pocket radio on the bedside table, curling up into the blankets, "Goodnight," Waylon breathes back.

The radio switches from the empty channel that Billy was using to speak, to a soft radio station.

  
" **So please don't speak**

**my heart is havin' trouble with the beat, beat, beat,**

**so try to take it slow,"**

  
Waylon closes his eyes, focusing on the softness of the music, letting it lull him to sleep.

 

 

 


	27. Rain

_**His fists tight, Waylon pounds his hands on the rusted, white door. He's trapped, in a small five - by - five room, walls white, a bare white bed pressed against the wall. Through the slat of a flat door, Waylon can see the long hallway on the other side, walls bare and a faded white. He can hear screaming echo through the hallway, the distant sounds of wet slapping and the tearing of meat. Waylon tries to yell, but the sound doesn't escape him.** _

_**A flicker, and a pair of beady white eyes stare at him through the slat. Waylon jerks away, recoiling and tripping over the bed. There's a groan of metal, the door denting inward. Waylon braces himself against the wall, arms covering his head as the door was ripped out of the wall, crashing into the hallway.** _

_**" This way," calls a voice, gentle and echoing. Billy? What are you doing here?** _

_**Don't leave this room. Don't leave this room.** _

_**Waylon, carefully, steps off the bed, peeking into the open hallway. The doorway is jagged, the crumpled corpse of the door flung against the hallway wall. Looking to his left, shadows hide the hallway. It radiates coldness. Looking to his right, the hallway is endless. Waylon carefully steps onto the carpeted floor. He looks down at himself.** _

_**He's stark naked, gash after gash cut into his tan skin. The cuts cross his thighs, up his stomach and chest. Waylon stretches his arms, seeing red cuts cover his skin. Lacking blood, the gashes expose the red muscle underneath his skin. He can see the meat writhe.** _

_**" Over here," Billy calls from the right.** _

_**Where are you? I can't see you.** _

_**Waylon stops inspecting himself to follow the sound.** _

_**Waylon walks....and walks...and walks.....** _

_**Until a break in the hallway stops him in his tracks. The hallway splits off at a two - way intersection, a hanging light dangling in the middle. A ghostly laugh breaks the air.** _

_**From the right of the intersection, a figure stumbles into view. His skin is greying, decaying, skin broken with wounds that seeped sickly - looking blood. In a dripping hand, he held a knife. The man had sandy hair that was matted and pushed back from his face, pale eyes dilated.** _

_**"** come here **, " the fake Waylon grunts, hand flexing around the knife.**_

_**Waylon steps back.** _

_**A pair of warm hands gently grab his shoulders.** _

_**"I've got you," Miles' voice says, a deep rumble. Miles' thumbs dig gently into Waylon's shoulder blades, rolling the tense muscle there.** _

_**The hallway, the twisted Waylon, the coldness, melts away, and warmth encases Waylon's body. The walls disappear, leaving behind the carpet, and the hanging lights. The lights dance around him, pinks and oranges and yellows and he feels himself be pulled back by his shoulders. He allows himself to be held against Miles' chest. Miles' hands roam over Waylon's chest, the scars and cuts disappearing where he touches.** _

_**"I've got you. I've got you," Miles breathes. His hands go lower.** _

Waylon wakes up.

Waylon's hands and legs are curled into his chest, in his usual _sleeping ball_ , as Lisa called it. He'd usually wake up tucked into Lisa's side, her drooling over him. The thin curtains let morning light slip through, the beams stretching against the painted walls, reflecting off of the framed paintings. Waylon blinks once, twice, before he realizes the sturdy warmth pressed against his back.

Miles' arms are wrapped around Waylon's torso, hands flat on his chest, cheek pressed against the back of Waylon's neck. His breathing is slow, wrapped up in a deep sleep. Chest and hips flush against Waylon's backside, Miles shifts slightly. Waylon's hips twitch in an involuntary response.

Waylon freezes. _Shit._

 _You're married. You're married, and you're shacking up with the first person you meet._ Then Waylon felt realization come crashing down on him.

With the stress of the past day, Waylon had completely forgotten about what he had done in his kitchen. Seeing Miles so excited, it filled Waylon with....

Joy? No, no.

 _Comfort_. Miles smiled crookedly, warmly. For a second, his dull eyes seemed to shine. Waylon tried to brush it off as something random, something that happened in a moment of weakness and excitement. It didn't mean anything.

But the bristle of Miles' stubble, his _smell_...

_Stop. Just stop. Get up._

The warm feelings expunged by guilt, Waylon attempts to gently pull away, only for Miles to grumble in his sleep, and hold Waylon tighter against him.

Heart racing, Waylon grabs the portable radio from the bedside table. Like Miles had done to him in the van, Waylon finds a rock station, and cranks the volume up all the way it would go. He ignores the ringing in his ears as Theory of a Deadman blasts through the radio. Miles jerks away, bounding up.

"Ah!" Miles gasps, hopping out of bed, " _Fuck_ , what is it?"

Waylon turns in the bed, a single thread of composure keeping him together, "Sorry!" He fakes, "I just meant to...check the weather. I didn't mean to wake you." Waylon sits up, making sure the sheets cover his hips.

Miles lets out an angry sigh, rubbing his eyes, ruffling his hair, "Fuck, Park, if you wanted me awake you could've just woken me up _normal_."

_He didn't know. He didn't know, thank God, he didn't realize._

The volume on the radio turns down, switching to a clean channel.

"Good morning," Billy says, cheery, "It's just past eight. We should leave soon."

Miles grumbles in agreement, starting to pull on his clothes and collect his things. Waylon swings his legs over, starting to pull on a pair of pants.

"Not so fast, Park," Miles says, his voice still hoarse from sleep. There's a rustle of a plastic bag, and something lands to Waylon's right, the brace and crutch peeking out, "Still gotta try these on."

Hands shaking, Waylon pulls the brace on. The brace cuts from the middle of Waylon's thigh to the bottom of his calf. He pulls the Velcro straps tight, stretching his leg out. It fits snugly. Waylon pulls a pair of jeans on, tying on his hiking boots. He stands, leaning onto his left leg. _Hurts less than usual. Way less._

Waylon pulls on his canvas coat, putting on the denim cap Miles got him. The arm crutch comes up to his elbow, letting him lean all his weight on it instead of his leg. He turns his head. Miles is watching him.

"How's everything fit?" He asks.

"Just perfect," Waylon says honestly, "Thank you, Miles. You didn't have to do this."

Miles shrugs, "What was I gonna do? Let you strain yourself all day long? It's not good for that leg."

Waylon looks away, face flushing, as he clips the portable radio to the belt loops of his jeans.

When they finish collecting everything, Miles grabs their things easily, bringing the bags down and throwing them into the van. He tells Waylon to wait by the van while he returned their room key.

While he did, Waylon stalked around the van, testing out the crutch. It was strange, using assistance to walk, but he quickly got used to it. With the pressure off his bad leg, Waylon felt a spark of personal satisfaction. _I can walk, on my own, without help. I won't be complaining to Miles, that's good. I could probably use this crutch to defend myself, too, if it came to that._

Miles comes back outside, "The owner said there was a decent diner around the corner. Feel like breakfast?"

Waylon's stomach warbled at the words.

The diner was two blocks away. On the way there, Waylon tries not to let his thoughts drift to the morning, feeling comfortable in Miles' embrace. Waylon was disgusted with himself. How could he do that? To the vows he took with his wife?

But in a small, burning pit in the center of his chest, Waylon desperately, _desperately_ , wanted to melt into Miles, to drift back to sleep. He wanted to forget everything. He didn't want to think about Murkoff, or what happened to him, or how much of a bastard he was. he wanted to forget himself.

_Selfish. You're being selfish._

He lets the betrayal simmer in his gut.

The diner was a cute, Greek - style with blue trimmings on the outside (18 paneled windows on the outside, Waylon counted,) and red booths on the inside. Miles orders two coffees as Waylon flips through the menu. Miles sips his coffee, not bothering with the menu.

"Aren't you hungry?" Waylon asks.

Miles shakes his head, "Nope. I..." Miles shifts, leaning in closer to Waylon.

A waitress comes by, taking Waylon's order. When she leaves, Miles' dull eyes are conflicted. His jacket sleeves were pulled up to partially hide his hands.

"You wanna know something...weird?"

 _I don't like the sound of that_ , "Sure, yeah."

Miles voice drops, barely audible, making Waylon lean close, "So...Billy, right? We both know he's not a real ghost - he's a cloud of technology. But _nanotech....feeds_. It needs matter to survive. It breaks things down, converting it to energy,"

Waylon feels cold brush him, where the radio was hanging from his waistband.

"I think...I think I'm still _full_ from yesterday morning."

When the food arrives, Waylon can barely stomach to pick at it.

"Billy.... _ate them_?" Waylon asks him, struggling to keep his composure, "He _ate_ those men?"

Miles exhales, "It's not some fucked up cannibalism type shit, Park. I don't even think he feeds off of the remains themselves. Billy says he feeds on brain activity. He feeds off stress. Adrenaline," Miles shakes his head, "He can break down matter, but it's really not the bodies he needs. It's the chemicals the body produces."

 _We're talking about this in public, like we're discussing a term paper or something_. Waylon didn't think that Billy's existence could be anymore twisted. Or interesting. Waylon didn't want to feel so...so _fascinated_ with him. _A cloud of nanotechnology, that could kill, and talk through the radio._

"What does that make Billy, then?" Waylon asks, "He's a person...or copies one well."

"I think," Miles says, leaning back, "He's Billy Hope. I think the nanotech is storing his memories, or something like that. He _is_ Billy Hope."

Waylon shivers, "Weird to know he's not a ghost. He's a..."

"A killing machine that hides away in my blood?" Miles jokes.

Waylon can only respond with a weak smile.

Waylon finishes his meal, Miles pays, and they're back on their way. Waylon tries his best to direct them off of Route 70 and onto Route 15. Heading North, they stop in a gas station outside of Salt Lake City, parking in a spot in the back.

"Damn, we still have more than half the tank left," Miles comments as he shuts the van off, "Feel like a walk?"

It's just past 10 AM, the Utah air brisk. The swathes of people that pass them don't bat them an eye. _No one recognizes Miles. That's good_. Waylon also finds that he doesn't struggle so much to keep up with Miles. _Must be matching my pace_ , Waylon decides.

A crowd is formed in the middle of the sidewalk.

"The _Hell_?" Miles says. Waylon watches Miles try to stretch and peer over the crowd, and scowls when he can't, "Can you see anything, Park?"

Waylon cranes his head. With little effort, he sees that the sea of people are crowded around the front of a department store, TV screens filling the display window. Every screen is fixed on the same news channel, a made - up woman with long black hair multiplied. Her voice is loud, reverberating through the street.

" _This is Channel 10 News. I'm Debbie Chau. This morning, reporters across the globe have uncovered disturbing evidence of the Murkoff Corporation hiring the mysterious Blackjaw Mercenary group. Blackjaw forces have been reported throughout the globe - mainly in South American and the Middle East - recent documents showing them on the Murkoff Corporation payroll. An estimated $500,000,000 dollars has been payed out to Blackjaw this year alone in overseas activities, but their forces are closer to home than initially reported. Throughout the Midwest, reports of their armored vehicles have been coming in droves. Authorities have reported them as violent, and aggressive, and urge the public to steer clear of their activities. If you see a black van with a silver symbol on the side, please, contact local authorities immediately - "_

Waylon feels a force tug on his right arm, and Miles is pulling him back the way they came.

"They're getting violent with people," Waylon says as the walk briskly back to the gas station, splitting hairs to avoid crashing into people, "They didn't mention you, though."

"Like that's supposed to be any better?" Miles grunts as the two men pile into the van quickly, "Motherfuckers aren't gonna catch me, that's for fucking _sure_."

It's close to 11 when they peel out of the lot. Miles stomps on the gas, fingers flexing as he locks the door over and over again. They nearly miss their exit, Mile quickly jerking the van onto Route 15. Billy turns the radio on, keeping the men updated. Blackjaw was reported in North Nevada. Waylon watches Miles' grip tighten on the wheel.

It was almost frightening how _ready_ Miles seemed to throw away his life to go on the run.

"You said..." Waylon started, careful about his words, "That you have no family. Do you have friends?"

Miles is silent for a minute. Waylon starts to twist in his seat to stare out the window, but Miles answers him.

"I guess you could call them _friends_. We're friendly, go drinking every once in a while. They work at the _Nevada Square_ with me, freelance journalists," the tightness in Miles' voice loosens as he talks longer, "They're nice, actually give a shit about people. Not like the rest of those stuffy assholes...."

Miles spends the next hour complaining about the poor spirit of his fellow journalists at the _Nevada Square_. Waylon listens to Miles rant and rave about the late deadlines, the headbutting of personalities and styles, the uncontrollable drama and flair of the journalist life. Each story Miles tells, the grin becomes wider, and wider, and Waylon is eased into the friendly atmosphere.

"....but anyway, yeah, I have two friends. I guess. I've known them for...I don't know, maybe seven years? We've been through a lot."

"You've known them _seven years_ , but don't consider them friends?" Waylon asks him with a huffed chuckle. _How can you know someone for that long, and not consider them friends?_

"I don't..." Miles' smile falls, "I don't know. I don't have a lot of people I'm on good terms with. Everyone thinks I'm... _prickly_."

" _Prickly_ , yeah," Waylon agrees, "But not _unlikable_."

Miles laughs, "You trying to flirt with me, Park?"

Waylon sucks in a laugh, ignoring the quickening of his pulse, "Don't try to change the subject."

"I'm not changing anything," Miles jokes back, "But it's true. Most people don't like me."

"I like you."

The van falls into silence. Waylon's body flushes.

"If Blackjaw is in North Nevada..." Waylon starts again, staring out at the long stretch of road, "Maybe we should stay with them for a bit? Just for a few days. Just until they pass."

"I don't know, Park, I don't want them to get involved in all.... _this_ ," Miles says with a sigh, shoulders squaring, "Murkoff is probably all over them. I don't want to stress them out any more than they probably are."

"Don't they at least deserve to know you're OK?" Waylon asks him with a soft voice.

Miles doesn't respond, his expression blank.

 _He's mad. Merry Hell._ Waylon pulls his legs up to his chest, staring out the window.

Miles pulls into a rest stop a few minutes later, "I'm gonna take a piss."

 

 

-

 

  
Instead of heading to the bathrooms, Miles ducks out of sight from the van, finding a public phone settled into the concrete back of the rest stop.

" _Don't they at least deserve to know you're OK?"_ Miles hears the echo of Waylon's voice say.

Miles isn't used to people. _..caring_ about his wellbeing. No one ever has. He's never asked anything of them, but they offer. They offer a lot more than Miles could ever pay them back for.

Miles drops a few coins into the coin slot of the phone, typing in the phone number.

The dial tone rings. Pick up. Pick up.

"Hello?" Answers a voice, annoyed.

"Blake?" Miles asks, voice quiet.

"Ye...wait. Miles? Miles, is that you?"

"It's me, Langermann," Miles confirms, glancing around. There's no one, not even Billy. _Must be back in the van._

The man bombards Miles with questions. _Are you OK? Where are you? What happened_? A thousand different questions Miles didn't have the patience to answer.

"Blake, _stop_ , alright?" Miles bites into the phone, "I'm fine. I'm not in Colorado."

"Where?" Blake demands.

"I don't want to say - but we're close to Nevada," _Try to keep it vague, Upshur. Murkoff might have their phones tapped,_ "Can't say where, but we're in driving distance."

" _We're_?"

Miles sighs, "Yes, _we're_ , I have a passenger, " _Or two._

"Is it the other man? The one from - "

"Langermann, for Christ's sake, can you _stop_."

Blake falls silent on the other end. There's a shuffling, and a murmur. Worry and anger flare in Miles' chest.

"Put me on speaker, Langermann, who else is there?" Miles can't hide the venom in his voice.

"It's just - " his voice turns into an echo, "You're on speaker. It's just me and Lynn. I swear to _God_ , it's just us."

"Miles?" Lynn calls, "Christ in a hand basket, are you OK?"

Miles takes a deep breath, "I'm fine," _Am I? Am I fine? "_ Listen. I need a favor."

"Whatever you need, Miles," Lynn says, almost immediately.

Whatever you need always comes with a price. That's how people are. But whatever that price is, Miles is ready to pay it, "I...we, need a place to crash for a few days. I can't go home yet."

"No shit, you can't go home yet," Lynn says, "We headed over there, to see if you came back. Blackjaw vans were swarming the place."

Miles stomach drops, " _Shit_."

"They weren't taking anything out. I think they're waiting for you," Blake says.

_They probably tore my place apart...planted a few bugs, maybe. I'm lucky if I show up and aren't sniped out Goddamn existence. But fuck, I can't let them run me out of my apartment - I pay the rent, not them!_

" _Miles_?" Lynn yells into the phone.

"I heard you," Miles runs a hand over his face, " _Fuck_."

"Listen, you can come here if you need to. We got questioned by some suits, but once they found out we knew nothing, they left us be," Lynn's voice edges on panic, but she keeps it together, "We need to talk, Miles."

Miles clenches his jaw, running his tongue over his teeth. _Hang up. Hang up, just go to your apartment. Don't bother them, don't drag them into this_.

"We'll be there in a few hours."

Miles hangs up the phone.

He stomps back to the van. _You're an asshole. You're a real asshole_. Billy is expressionless as he sits on the top of the van, perched like a watchful vulture.

"That was a long piss," Billy says as Miles slams the door of the van.

"Do you have to go to the bathroom, Park?" Miles asks.

"No," Waylon says, fingering the armrest of his crutch. He doesn't meet Miles' eye.

"Alright, well, we're heading into Nevada soon. We're gonna meet some friends of mine out in Middlegate. It'll take a couple hours, and I'm not stopping."

Waylon's head picks up, "Oh, so you _do_ have friends."

Miles rolls his eyes. Hitting the van lock five times, he pulls back onto Route 15.

Billy switches on the radio.

" _Good afternoon, Western America,_ " Susie Sunshine says, friendly and light, _"We are back from our commercial break to bring you an hour of ad free music. You're listening to Sunshine 112.2, the brightest radio station this side of the country."_

A guitar rift with clapping starts. Miles grins.

"Fuck, I love this song," He cranks the volume up, loud enough to shake the van.

" **Some like it beautiful, perfect and pretty**

 

**I see the good in the bad and the ugly**

 

**I need the volume one louder than ten**

 

**I put the pedal to the metal. needle into the red "**

 

Miles nods and taps his foot to the beat, to the chorus. He used to be a so called 'Rocker' in his teenage days. Really, all he did was get shitfaced at parties and take over the radio. Used to get the cops called at every party he went to in high school. He was a big fan of Ozzy Osborne, Blink - 182, the Beastie Boys. Anything with a hard beat and angry lyrics, he listened to.

Waylon has a grin on his face as he stares out the window, head bobbing to the song.

 

 

  
-

 

 

Five hours later, the three men cross the city limits of Middlegate, Nevada. Miles had turned the radio down long ago, when he saw Waylon nod off in his seat. Miles saw Billy out of the corner of his eye, black smoke curling around Waylon's face and chest.

"He always hurts," Billy says, "Even in his sleep."

"Why do you say it like that?" Miles asks, quiet, "Why don't you just say, like ' _Oh, he's stressed_ ,' or ' _He's exhausted_ ,' or something. Why is it always ' _Hurt_?' "

"It's easier than having to go through specifics. ' _Hurts_ ,' is easier to say than ' _The emotional toll of leaving his family is traumatic and weighs heavily upon his shoulders.' "_

His greying hands ruffle Waylon's hair. Waylon stirs in his sleep, turning onto his side, his crutch tucked between his thighs.

"But you think me naive, so maybe it makes more sense to just describe the feelings as ' _hurting_.' "

"I don't think you're _naive_ ," Miles says, more defensively than he meant, "You're...." _Shit, what's a nice way to say childish? Youthful?_

"You can say childish," Billy says. He sits between the passenger and driver's seat, where a console would be, if it weren't empty. Billy's legs draw up to his chest, "Mama used to say that. That I was childish."

Miles tries to pay attention to the road, "Can you...read my mind, Billy?"

Billy laughs. It's a hollow sound that reverbs through the van, "I cant, no."

"But you know all this shit about me...that my dad's alive, how we fought. How do you know that?"

Billy thinks for a second, tilting his head, opening his mouth and closing it several times.

"I'm locked in your blood - the nanotechnology I'm made of bonded to your nervous system and brain. During this bonding process, when the Walrider had you pinned to the wall, we became one. I absorbed your memories. Your human brain lacks the ability to hold another's entire life, but the brain of every nano inside me is worth a thousand human brains."

Miles shivers. _That's just as dangerous as being able to kill invisible to the naked eye. Imagine the minds you could store in there - scientists, politicians, whoever had the money to keep themselves alive. Guess that means there might be another copy of me floating around if I'm not careful._

"So what's the uh..." Miles pats his chest, "The burn mark for?"

"I need a place to leave the body. The Walrider left me through my spine," Billy touches the back of his neck, "I leave you through your chest."

For emphasis, Miles feels the burn grow warm, dust sifting under his skin.

Droplets fall onto the windshield, small fragments of liquid mirror that scatter. The once blue sky had been clouded over with light grey puffs, sun completely shielded. Miles turns the windshield wipers and his headlights on. The streets of the city turned familiar, and Miles had no trouble navigating the streets up to the Langermann's apartment complex. The rain came crashing down in blankets, pattering harshly against the van.

"I hate the rain," Billy says with a scowl, "Everything turns so grey and drab."

"Do me a favor and wake Waylon up, yeah? Nicely?" Miles asks him, slowing on the street with the Langermann's complex.

He glances around the area quickly. There's no black car in sight, no cruiser with tinted windows, or large vans with silver symbols on the side. The apartment complex is a tall, red brick building that was well kept. The area was fairly safe as well, so Miles had no qualms about parking in the back alley, where the owner had open parking.

He looks over, seeing Billy laying a hand on Waylon's arm. He see's Waylon shiver, eyes sleepily fluttering open.

"Morning, Sunshine," Miles says, shutting the van off, "We're here."

Waylon yawns. Rubbing his eyes, he curls his coat over him, "It's freezing."

Billy gives Miles a Cheshire grin, and disappears, flowing back into Miles' chest.

Miles grabs their things from the back of the van, Waylon standing in a puddle, shivering. They quickly enter the back door of the apartment building, shaking off the rain.

"I don't think you ever told me their names," Waylon points out.

"It's Blake and Lynn Langermann. They're good people. We're safe here," I hope.

The apartment complex held 12 units, four on each floor. The Langermanns were located on the top floor, apartment 12. The inside of the building was a drab brown color, carpeted floor soaking up each soggy step. Miles pauses at the apartment door, the door a darker and drabber brown to separate it from the walls. A small, brass nameplate reads the number 12.

Miles knocks, nothing more than a gentle rapping on an aging door.

There's a clatter, and a rush of footsteps, and the door flings inward.

Blake and Lynn Langermann share the doorway, both their eyes wide.

Miles can barely say _Hello_ before they pull him into their apartment, Waylon quickly behind. Blake slams the door, slotting in the lock and deadbolt.

"Thank _God_ ," Lynn breathes, wrapping her arms around Miles. They're the same height, Lynn burying her face into Miles' shoulder. Miles gives her a tight hug back. _She still smells like that stupid vanilla perfume she wears all the time._

They hug for a long, long time, before Miles gives Lynn a light pat on her back, and she lets go. Her brown hair is tied back in a messy bun, but strangely, she's dressed in a nice top and jeans, mascara and light lipstick applied. Miles is almost taken aback.

"Christ almighty, Miles, we didn't think you were _alive_ until you called," she says, pulling him back in for a hug. Their bodies turn, and Miles watches Blake stick his hand out to Waylon.

"You must be Waylon Park," Blake says. Miles watches Waylon nervously extend his hand, Blake taking it in earnest with an energetic shake, "I'm Blake Langermann. I'm glad to see you're alright, too."

The couple switches places, Blake giving Miles a hard hug. Miles watches from over his shoulder as Waylon stretches out his hand, only to be hugged by Lynn. Waylon freezes, eyes on Miles, before he smiles and gives her a friendly pat on her back in a half - hearted embrace.

Lynn introduces herself to Waylon, leading them into the living room. The apartment is a simple one bedroom, one bathroom, with a living room and an open kitchen. The floor is carpeted greyish - blue, the walls a gentle and pale gold. The living room is furnished with a well - worn couch, a loveseat, and a coffee table. An old TV is perched on a stand against the far wall. The window leading to the outside is covered by worn blue curtains.

"Not much has changed I see," Miles says. Blake hands him and Waylon two hot mugs of coffee.

"You were here a week ago," Lynn scoffs from the loveseat.

 _"I feel like I've been gone for years_ ," Miles thinks to himself. Mentally and emotionally drained, the familiar and comforting air of the Langermanns' apartment partially extinguished the subtle fires that always seemed to be raging inside him.

Glancing over, Waylon looks calm, if out of place. Miles shifts, ever slightly, closer to Waylon, their knees touching. He tries not to notice the subtle lift of Lynn's chin.

Blake perches on the armrest of the loveseat, "You have to tell us what happened in there."

"Easy - " Miles begins, placing his hot coffee on the table and leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, "I showed up there, got chased around by meatheads and naked maniacs with scissors and knives, uncovered human rights violations and weapons that could wipe this planet off the face of the solar system, and then I escaped."

"The footage stops after that...that thing, the Walrider, flung you against the wall. We thought you were dead," with that, Lynn stands and quickly rushes out of the living room, returning with her laptop, "Did you watch any of this before you posted it?"

"No," Miles' eyes are drawn to the kitchen. Billy sits at one of the stools set up at the open counter, legs closed together, watching.

"Can you tell us how you got out?" Blake asks with a nod at Waylon, "Your footage ends after that suit gets ripped apart. We didn't think you survived, either."

"Same way I did," Miles answers before Waylon can answer, "Fucking ran like a bat out of Hell. Literally. Place was a fucking breeding ground of evil and depravity."

Lynn opens up her laptop, plopping back into the loveseat and pulling up Miles' post on the _Nevada Square_ website, "You posted almost a day's worth of footage, Miles, we could barely run through it fast enough...this is sick."

"You said it," Miles says as Lynn turns her computer screen, showing the grainy and green image of the mercenary Miles saw spitted like a roast pig when he first entered the asylum. Miles grimaces, "Put that shit away. I don't want to see it," _I got enough of that shit in Mount Massive._

Lynn closes her laptop with a worried look, "So what happened? How'd you two get out? Where did the Walrider go?"

Blake and Lynn look less intrigued, and more worried.

"You guys trust me?" Miles asks them.

"Of course we do," Blake answers, his hand on Lynn's shoulder. Miles is slightly distracted by the small hoops in her ears. _What is she all dressed up for?_

"And you can trust us. We won't say anything about what you tell us here," Lynn shoves her laptop onto the coffee table, "Nothing gets repeated."

Waylon and Miles' eyes lock, Waylon's grip tight around his mug. _Asking permission?_ Miles motions a hand towards Blake and Lynn. _Go ahead._

Waylon's voice shakes as he retells everything. He starts off by saying that Murkoff offered him a job when his family needed it most, how he contacted Miles, and then got imprisoned.

"What happened while they had you... _detained_?" Blake asks.

A beat, stressed silence. Miles holds a hand to Waylon's lower back.

"They tortured me," Waylon says, finally, barely heard, "Forced me into therapies."

Blake and Lynn don't ask him any more questions about his imprisonment.

Miles hears things he hasn't heard before, how Billy had dropped him on the hood of his Jeep, and that Waylon took him home because he thought he was injured.

 _I wonder how things would have played out if he left me there. Is it weird I'm glad he didn't?_ What's weirder is, like with the Walrider, Billy had the ability to render his body invisible to the naked eye. _How that's supposed to fucking work, beats me. Could be useful, though._

Lynn's eyebrows scrunch together, "Why did it spare you, Miles? Do you know?"

Miles stares at Billy. Billy nods excitedly. The radio on Waylon's hip switches on, static coming through, dialing through channels. Blake and Lynn's eyes go wide, staring. Miles inhales, exhales.

"Because I'm the new host."

Visibly, the Langermanns tense. _Shit_.

"I'm not the Walrider," Billy says, Miles hearing his multiple voices speak physically and through the radio, "I'm Billy Hope."

Billy explains to them the nature of the Morphogenic Engine, telling them that the Walrider was born from his lucid dream state - and when he attacked Miles, the nanotechnology had bonded to Miles' biology.

"The Walrider was wrathful - animalistic in it's intentions. It only knew anger, how to kill. I'm nice. I don't kill."

Miles keeps it to himself that Billy, in fact, has killed before. He's never hurt anyone who doesn't deserve it - it's better if they don't know.

Blake and Lynn seem fascinated.

It's been two hours since Miles and Waylon had entered the Langermanns' apartment, and Miles had never felt more welcome somewhere. Nonstop, they talked about the Asylum, about Billy. He watched his _friends_ speak politely, excitedly, to Billy and Waylon. They never asked anything Miles would consider out of bounds, or disrespectful. They weren't nervous, glancing at a door or window. Everything word spoken was friendly. _Normal_. The first bit of normal Miles had had in over four days.

Lynn checks her watch, " _Shit_ ," she says, "I'm gonna be late."

"Hot date tonight? I thought it was weird you were all dolled up like that, Lynn," Miles says.

"Well, I have to finalize our trip to Arizona," she says, grabbing a bag leaning on the kitchen counter.

"For that Jane Doe they found?" Miles asks. Authorities in Arizona found a young girl a week ago, dead on the side of the road, eight months pregnant. The Langermanns scooped up the story before Miles could get his hands on it. Probably for the best. _Imagine if I was in Arizona when Waylon emailed me._

"Same one," Blake answers, "The people we're working with are..."

"Assholes," Lynn says with a grin, "But the owner is nice. I agreed to drinks with her."

"Oh, is she cute?" Miles asks.

" _Very_ ," Lynn's grin curls into a mischievous smile.

"When are you leaving?" Miles asks them.

"In three days," Blake answers again, "You can stay after we're gone."

Miles shakes with head, "We won't be here that long. It's just for the night."

"Well," Lynn walks back to the couch, giving Blake a kiss on his temple, "You can stay as long as you need to. It was nice meeting you, Waylon," she says, extending her hand to him. Waylon stands quickly, taking her hand in a friendly shake.

"I can't thank you enough, Lynn," he says with a warm grin.

Lynn waves him off with a smile, "I'd do it for anyone," she looks at Miles, "I'll be back later. Don't destroy the place while I'm gone."

Blake, Miles, and Waylon wave her a goodbye, and Lynn quickly out the door.

"Are you guys hungry?" Blake asks, taking the empty mugs on the coffee table to the kitchen.

"No, I wouldn't want to intrude," Waylon says. _He sounds exhausted_ , "I think I'll just go to bed."

"I bet, Miles called us in the early afternoon. You guys drove that long?"

"The life of two wanted people," Waylon jokes, "Has anyone come by asking for Miles?"

"Yesterday, yeah, but we convinced them we didn't know anything," Blake opens the fridge, pulling three green bottle out, "How about a beer?"

"I'd love one," Miles says quickly, "Waylon?"

"No thanks."

Blake quickly pops two beers open, returning the third to the fridge.

"Let me grab you a blanket, Waylon," Blake says. He motions Miles to follow him, slipping one beer into his hand.

When they make it into his and Lynn's bedroom, Blake sets his beer down.

"Let me give Waylon that blanket. Then we can talk."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know i said fuck canon.....but. Like. FUCK outlast canon.
> 
> Like im trying not to port my opinions so much here, but like i can and WILL because i have words to say.
> 
> I loved outlast for the quality of the game, the mechanics, the general horror, and the story of the world red barrell built. It was so popular when it came out, because all these qualities made it different and unique from other games that were out the same time Outlast came out. What Red Barell THOUGHT made it so popular....was the sexual violence. Again, this is just my opinion, but we could have done without Outlast 2. Like we didnt need it. At all. Dump that shit in the garbage. Get it OUT of my face. I thought Whistleblower was BAD, but this shit made Whistleblower look like a walk in the park....shits wild
> 
> Anyway, I can and will let the Langermanns have a happy ending and they will be OK. Theyll be OK. Lets get these good vibes in!
> 
> also as i finished this chapter PAX just officially announced Borderlands 3 so im fucking HYPED up.......
> 
> ok im done talking bye thnx for reading <3


	28. Open

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning for sexual content

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok if ur wondering "wow this chapter came out fast" its bc i had this chapter tucked away on the backburner since chapter 15 and finally i got to editing and adding to it. i have a few different pieces and pre-written chapters i would like to add in, but it depends on how everything goes. i had a lot of fun writing this chapter :)
> 
> also, these chapters of miles and waylon on the road will be a lot longer than the previous chapters because of the enclosed spaces they are in together, please forgive the broken parts of this chapter this time i didnt want everything to be so separated by making another chapter
> 
> anyway, enjoy! have some gay content and misjudgings of character

Miles is almost finished his beer by the time Blake comes back. Miles hasn't had a drink in almost a week - and Miles could feel himself wither away at even the mention of a drink. Was Miles an alcoholic? Maybe. He only drank in the morning, at night, after he comes home from a day out, when he wakes up in the middle of the night and can't sleep, when he -

" _Fuck....am I an alcoholic?_ " Miles had already given up smoking when he started at the Nevada Square (besides the occasional shared cigarette between friends or dates,) drinking was his last pleasure in life.

Blake steps back into the room. He lets the brave face he put on for company falter.

"Jesus, Miles, we thought you were dead," he says. He pushes his glasses up, rubbing at his eyes, "Jesus, _we thought you were dead."_

Miles' mind wanders back to Billy, in the Park's garage, when Billy had tried to possess him. _They killed you, Miles. I had no choice._

"I'm here, aren't I?" Miles says, blunt as he finishes his beer.

The Langermanns' bedroom is plainly furnished, a large bed with cream blankets, a large desk on the wall in front. Blake leans against the edge of the desk.

"For Christ's sake," Blake breathes. Stepping closer to Miles, he touches Miles' free hand - the right one. Blake gently, _gently_ , traces the exposed bone of his pointer finger. Miles doesn't pull away.

"At least he didn't take any more," Miles jokes, "Could have chopped off something more important," _I got out before Trager did._

Blake's mouth is shut tight, looking up into Miles' face.

"If I knew all this would have happened, Lynn and I would have insisted on coming," With featherlight touches, Blake traces the scars on Miles' lip and cheek, "I'm sorry we let you go."

"Don't be. I'm glad it was me there. It saved you, or anyone else, from having to enter that place."

A times, Miles felt like the Mount Massive Incident was planned out for him. The email, the path he took to navigate the asylum, everything was so perfectly aligned. Everything fell into place where it needed to in a scarily convenient fashion. If Miles needed a key, the key showed up. If Miles needed a window to escape, the window showed up. If he needed a vent to fall open, the vent fell open. Mount Massive was perfectly tailored for him. He had to be the one there. The burden of knowing what Murkoff did, knowing the depravities committed, experiencing pain and torture most people will never experience in their lifetimes, was a cross Miles was born to bear. He couldn't imagine anyone else in his place.

Blake's eyes shine with wetness. Miles' chest sinks.

"I'm glad that you're OK," Blake says, standing straight to regain himself, "I'm sorry," He lets go of Miles' hand.

Miles grabs his hand.

"It's not your fault, Langermann," he says, "I knew that it was dangerous. Maybe not to the extent it was, but I knew it wasn't going to be a walk in the park."

Blake turns his hand, fingers lacing with Miles'. Miles' lips quirk into a grin, edging back into familiar ground.

"How was it without me here?" Miles asks, closing the gap between him and Blake, steering Blake back into the desk.

"Boring. I wasn't used to you not calling us every couple hours to whine about a deadline, or some asshole who cut you off on the highway."

Miles puts his empty beer bottle down. grabbing Blake's hips.

About six months into knowing the Langermanns, Miles learned about their open relationship. Both Lynn and Blake saw who they wanted - physically, anyway, emotional cheating was off limits. Miles found it fucking crazy, to be honest. Flipped out when Blake started flirting with him. Miles could laugh at what he said, accusing Blake of being a dog with no regard for his wife. But then the Langermanns explained the extent of their relationship. _Hey, if it works it works_. Miles didn't mind being an occasional stress - reliever. Lynn was fine with it, respected Miles and didn't push for anything, and Blake was outrageously good looking. It was a win - win situation.

Except Miles always went home the next morning.

Miles barely leans in when Blake meets his lips. Blake's short beard is a welcome feeling, catching on Miles' own scruff. Blake's warm mouth tastes faintly of coffee, overpowered by his beer.

Miles almost thinks of stopping. _Waylon is in the living room. You shouldn't_.

Miles kisses the thought away. By now, Miles has chalked up this faint attraction as nothing more than an attraction of convenience. They both went through a lot, both together and separately, and were travelling together in close quarters. Their bond was as close as his and Billy's.

_But you don't feel that same way about Billy, do you?_

Besides that, Waylon is married, and straight. He's too good of a man to cheat, even if he had the chance to 'get even' with his wife. That peck in the kitchen? It was nothing, just something born from relief and adrenaline.

Blake holds Miles by his coat, feeling around his shoulder blades. Miles breathes out through his nose, breaking the kiss. Blake's skin is flushed, lips slightly swollen.

 _I need this_ , Miles tells himself, _I need this_.

Miles shrugs off his jacket, reclaiming Blake's mouth in a familiar rough kiss. His hands reach back to grab at Blake's backside, letting instinct take over.

 

 

-

 

 

_I only meant to go to the bathroom. I didn't mean to stop and stare._

Waylon watches as the two men embrace.

Miles lifts Blake onto his desk, Blake's legs wrapping around Miles' hips. Miles pulls open Blake's dress shirt, buttons popping, bouncing off of his desk onto the hardwood floor. They kiss feverishly, Miles raking his hands down Blake's hairy chest, fumbling with the man's belt. Blake breaks the kiss with a gasp, mumbling something into Miles' shoulder.

Waylon can't move. He wants to tear his eyes away, move from the hallway, do _something_ that wasn't standing here watching like a creep.

Miles pulls off his shirt, throwing it over his shoulder. His broad back was littered with light scars, scars that get quickly traced over by a pair of hands. Blake's hair is mussed, glasses slightly crooked on his nose. Waylon can't see Miles' hands, but see's a shift in their positions. Blake gasps, sharp and heavy.

"Miss me that much, Langermann?" Miles breathes out, almost low enough for Waylon to miss his words. Miles' arm flexes in a way Waylon can only recognize as pumping. Blake's legs loosen, spreading, knees digging into Miles' sides, lips parted.

"That's good.. _.fuck_ , you're hard," Waylon can hear the grin in Miles' voice.

Miles leans forward, head turned into Blake's neck. Blake near - growls, nails dragging down Miles' back. Waylon watches pale pink lines appear where Blake dragged his fingers, healing over immediately, turning back into Miles' olive skin.

Waylon's chest tightens as he watches Miles completely ravish this man. Miles, rough when he wants to be, voice low into harsh whispers, biting back groans when Blake reciprocates his touches. The rest of their clothes quickly disappear off of their bodies and onto the floor of the Langermanns' bedroom. Blake is naked besides his ruined dress shirt. Miles is completely exposed.

Waylon can't look away from the handsomeness of Miles' body, all soft and square, muscles somewhat defined. It's entrancing.

Waylon feels disgusting for it. _You shouldn't be watching. You shouldn't be watching._

There's a tender moment, where Blake's eyes wander to Miles' chest, hand coming up to trace what Waylon knows is that strange burn mark. Miles gives him no time to study. He takes Blake's glasses, folding them and throwing them into a random desk drawer, slamming it shut. Blake reaches to his left. There's the distinct sound of a condom wrapper being opened, Miles' breath hitching. He pulls Blake close, Blake's head resting on his shoulder with a soft moan.

Waylon can only imagine Miles holding him like that, held tight, ready for -

Waylon stops himself. _What the fuck are you thinking? Get out of there._ A hiss of air escapes his lips.

Blake picks his head up from it's position on Miles' shoulder. He squints in Waylon's direction.

 _Fuck_!

"Fuck, did I leave the door open, Upshur? I can't see," Blake says, voice suddenly quiet, aware that there's a third in his home he had forgotten about.

"Who cares?" Miles says. There's a moment of quiet, before he groans in frustration, "Fuck, I'll check if it makes you feel better."

Before Miles starts moving, Waylon, quietly but panicked, ducks out of the way. On his hands and knees, he quickly crawls towards the living room. He bounces up, hugging the wall before the hallway, out of eyeshot.

Waylon doesn't hear anything but the closing of a door.

His exhale is strained. Waylon's heart thunders in his chest, entire body hot, jeans tight. He was almost caught. _Fuck getting caught, you fucking idiot, you were sitting there watching him get busy! What would Lisa think?_

 _Lisa_. Fuck, what would she say if she saw this? Seeing her husband peep in on a man getting busy with another man? She'd feel betrayed. She'd feel so worthless.

As worthless as Waylon did when she told him she and Frank were seeing each other. Waylon tried, tried with _everything_ he had, to get over their betrayal. He told them he forgave them on the house porch, that he still loved the both of them, but his forgiveness wasn't true. Bad feelings, _pain_ , swirled within his chest, adrenaline thrumming to a stop. How awful he is. How selfish. He'd be just as bad as her if he tried to initiate anything like that, men or otherwise. Not that he wants to. Every moment of intimacy feels evil, feels like he's being judged and watched. Like he watched Miles and Blake.

"I'm more fucked up than I thought," he says to himself. _You're disgusting, broken._

He pushes from the wall, grabbing the small pocket radio from the coffee table.

"Billy? You there?" _Please don't leave me alone_.

There's a moment of silence, the dial turning by itself for a clear signal, before Billy's voice comes through.

"Here, Waylon," he says. " _That didn't look like going to the bathroom to me."_

"Yeah," Waylon digs his knuckles into his forehead, "Can you promise me something, Billy?"

"Yes."

"If Miles asks, I was asleep the whole time. Please don't tell him I was in that hallway. _Please_ ," his voice edges on begging. Waylon couldn't bear the thought of continuing on their journey if Miles knew. The trust they built together would be worth nothing.

"Alright Waylon. Because you said ' _Please_ ,'" Billy agrees playfully. Waylon could laugh, if he didn't feel so pathetic and disgusting. Instead, he changes out of his jeans and out of his brace. He takes the radio to his spot on the couch, laying down and curling up into the thick comforter Blake had gotten for him.

 _Blake_. Fuck, did his wife know? How long has Miles been seeing a married man? Waylon wasn't perturbed by Miles' attraction to men - Waylon was bisexual, after all - but the thought of stepping in on someone else's marriage? It was disgusting. The deep, deep hole in Waylon's chest expands. He didn't see Miles as a man like that. He had never gotten that feeling - and Waylon's gut instincts were always right.

He lays the radio down on his chest, folding his hands over it.

"I found this song on the radio. It's soothing. Would you like to hear it?" Billy asks.

"I'd love to," Waylon responds, feeling cold brush his shoulder.

There's silence on Billy's end, then the radio dial turns on it's own. The volume raises a few notches, drowning out the sounds from the bedroom, drowning out Waylon's thoughts.

" **Now you know**

**I need a miracle,**

**A star - crossed lover,**

**An arrow in my heart,"**

 

 

Waylon closes his eyes.

 

  
**"I need a rainy day,**

**And an endless summer,**

**A pocket full of stars."**

 

  
He hears Billy hum along as he falls into a quiet, guilty sleep.

 

 

  
-

 

 

  
Blake lounges lazily on his desk, legs dangling off the edge. Miles pulls off his condom, tying a knot at the base and tossing it into a small trashcan in the corner of the room. Miles grabs and pulls his pants and underwear back up, not bothering with his shirt.

"You want a beer?" Miles asks, buttoning his pants up.

Blake spreads his legs unabashedly, sitting up on his elbows, "I still have mine here," he replies, grabbing his now - room temperature beer bottle, still full.

Miles stretched, "I'll be back."

He exits the room, walking through the hallway, hearing the sound of music being played.

Waylon is curled up on the couch, blanket covering him up to his chest, hands folded on top of Billy's radio. Billy sits on the coffee table, hands folded in his lap, patient and waiting. His lips purse.

"Hello Upshur."

"Hi."

Miles crosses the living room, gently pulling the radio from Waylon's hands, cutting off the song mid - verse. Waylon doesn't stir, seeming comfortable and peaceful. _Out like a light. Good._ Miles places the radio on the table. He walks to the open kitchen, opening the fridge and pulling out another beer. When he turns around, Billy is staring at him, eyebrows raised, lips curled into a tight smile.

"You weren't, like, _watching_ , were you?" Miles asks.

"No. I was out here."

"Good," he the beer with a rusted bottle opener on the counter, "Waylon was asleep the whole time?"

Billy's smile falls. There's a strange silence before he answers, "Yes."

Miles blinks.

"So he was on the couch? Asleep? The whole time?"

Billy nods, "Yes."

Miles blinks a glare in Billy's direction, "OK."

Miles should give a shit about Billy so obviously lying to him. _Should_. But the anticipation of a relaxed, post - coital beer sharing called to him. _Who cares if Waylon heard - we're all adults here. It'll be awkward in the morning, but we all went through awkward shit like that in life. We've all had roomates like that at one point or another._

With a shake of his head and a sip of his beer, Miles walks back through the hallway and into the bedroom.

Blake is still lounging on the desk, cigarette lit in hand, one foot pulled up to rest on the edge, other leg dangling lazily. He still looks stretched open, fluids still covering his stomach, tangled in his happy trail.

"You ruined my shirt," he says, not looking up and taking a drag.

Miles places his beer down. He stands between Blake's legs, running his hands over lean and hairy thighs.

"Ah, you loved it," Miles says. He sips his beer, "I thought you quit smoking?"

"Lynn quit smoking. I didn't."

Blake pushes himself up, flinching slightly. Miles grins and pushes Blake's thighs apart, Blake's ankles crossing behind Miles' knees. Blake grabs his beer, taking a thoughtful sip.

"How's our houseguest?" He asks, "Well, the living one."

"He's fine. Sleeping. The dead one's fine, too," Miles downs his beer halfway, "Fuck, you still buy this shit?"

"Mhm," Blake's warm hand runs down his chest, tracing over the outer part of the mark. His finger goes inward, tracing the inner dent. Blake suddenly pulls his hand back with a hiss.

 _"Shit,_ " he says, "It hot."

"Really?" Miles looks down, touching the same spot Blake did. It felt like just the same, familiar warmth the mark usually radiated, "Doesn't feel hot to me."

Blake makes a ' _Huh_ ,' sound in the back of his throat. He takes another drag from his cigarette. Miles tilts his chin up, meeting his lips. Blake blows the excess smoke into the kiss, snuffing out the cigarette in an ashtray to the side. Miles blows the smoke through his teeth. He dips his head down to kiss Blake again. Blake groans, rubbing his hands over Miles' biceps.

"Round two, huh?" Blake mutters through kisses.

Miles presses forward, leaning them both back down onto the desk.

 

  
-

 

  
_**Miles kisses softly down Waylon's chest. His hands rub Waylon's thighs. Waylon's body is drenched in sweat, breath quickening the lower Miles goes. Miles pushes Waylon's thighs out further, kissing along his stomach, hot breath hovering over Waylon's groin. He instead kisses the area around, up his thighs, teeth dragging. Waylon groans, leaning his head back, eyes closing.** _

_**"Park? Look at me."** _

_**Waylon meets Miles' gaze. The usual dull brown of his eyes were replaced with a burning, bright white light. Miles smiles.** _

Waylon bolts up straight from the couch. Soft light peeks gently through between the curtains of the living room. It's early, and Waylon checks the digital clock on the coffee table, seeing that it's just past nine AM. He rubs the sleep from his eyes, shamefully aware of his morning wood. _If Miles asks, you never saw anything, never heard anything,_ he tells himself. _You were asleep the whole time._

He feels sick. _How could I do that? To him? To Lisa?_ What would his boys think? That their father was a vouyering deviant who cheated on their mother? _First I abandon them, then I step out on their mother?_

The radio he once had on his chest was on the coffee table. He reached for it, feeling cold brush over his hand. He quickly learned that these cold spots were responses from Billy. _He really is a ghost, huh?_

"G'morning," he says, swinging his legs over the couch, feet planted onto the carpet. He turns the radio on, turning the dial until he hears less static.

"Morning," Billy responds, voice light, "Lynn came home while you were sleeping....there's pancake mix in the cabinet."

Waylon looks over, seeing the loveseat empty.

"Where's Miles?" Waylon asks, pulling the blanket off of his legs, clutching the radio close.

"He's still in the bedroom."

"But you said Lynn came home," Waylon rubs at his left leg, massaging the muscle around, his skin strangely tender underneath.

"I did. He's still in there."

Waylon blinks in surprise, a blush creeping on his skin, "Oh," _So, maybe Lynn does know then. Maybe that's why Miles didn't want to call them friends. They're lovers._

Waylon realizes that there's a lot about Miles Upshur that he doesn't know.

"H - "

"Yeah - " Waylon jumps up, "Yeah, let's not talk about it. Let's just...pretend we never heard anything."

"'But they - "

"It's...let's just keep everything to ourselves," he walks into the open kitchen, placing the radio down on the counter.

Billy doesn't respond, the radio turning to a soft - rock station.

 

 

-

 

 

Miles rubs his eyes, stretching out his shoulders and arms. He runs a content hand over his stomach, feeling residue stickiness of the night before still on his skin. He looks to his right, seeing Blake curled up under Lynn's arm. Blake's neck is covered in purple and pink hickeys, a smearing of red lipstick on his jaw and lips, mixing with the marks Miles left behind. Lynn's face was peaceful, lipstick smeared on her lips, eyelashes still heavy with mascara.

Miles didn't remember Lynn coming home at any point, but anything could have happened after Miles feel asleep. Miles was a notoriously post - coital heavy sleeper. Strangely enough, Miles didn't have any strange dreams last night. He decides it must have been the absence of Billy in his head.

Miles takes a deep breath, catching whiff of the faint scent of bacon and eggs. His stomach growls. _Guess all that energy Billy stored up wore off._ He sits up, pulling the thin sheets off of him. He's still naked, clothes on the floor. He pulls his underwear and pants on, but pauses when he see's his shirt, remembering that he used it to wipe semen off of his and Blake's bellies. He'd head to the laundromat down the street later on. Right now, his appetite controlled him. He threw the shirt back onto the floor, buttoning up his pants, carefully standing up and toeing around the bed to avoid waking the couple up.

The hallway smells stronger, meats and eggs and pancakes pulling Miles by his gut into the kitchen. The familiar digital clock read 9:32 AM, sunlight filling the room. He sees Waylon working behind the kitchen counter, still in the clothes he wore the day before, minus his jacket and hat. Miles forgets how thin Waylon is. _A month in Hell can do that to you._ Two pans were on the stove, one holding a helping of eggs and bacon and sausage, while Waylon works in a few doughy dollops in another large flat pan, flipping them. Waylon's brace is on, his crutch leaning close by. Miles pulls up a tall chair, facing Waylon from over the countertop. He holds his chin in his hands.

"Mornin', Park," he says with a yawn. Waylon jumps, spatula clattering on the stove.

"G'mornin'," Waylon replies, picking the spatula back up quickly to flip the pancakes. He looks at Miles, eyes trailing down from Miles' face to his chest. Waylon quickly looks away, focusing on his pan, "I made coffee."

 _Maybe I should have put a shirt on,_ Miles thinks. Instead of grabbing a shirt from his duffle bag, Miles looks past Waylon, seeing a full pot in the cradle of the instant coffee maker. Miles lazily slides out of his chair. When he's finished making his coffee, he steps and peers over Waylon's shoulder.

"Looks good Park, that for me?" he sips his coffee.

"Yeah, thought I'd make everyone breakfast. It was nice of them to let us stay here for the night," Waylon says, keeping his eyes down at the stove.

Billy is watching Waylon cook, sitting at the kitchen counter.

Miles goes back into the living room to rifle through his duffle bag for a fresh shirt, pulling it on. He'll shower later, after breakfast.

A few minutes later there's a flush, and Lynn walks out of the bathroom. She's out of her nice jeans and top, replaced by baggy pajama pants and a loose tank top. Her hair is down and messy, makeup wiped off. She yawns.

"Morning," she says, "Hell, who's making breakfast? It's not Miles, he can't cook," she grins in Miles' direction, who sticks his tongue out at her.

Lynn tilts her head in Waylon's direction. She leans over the counter, "Oh, Waylon, you didn't have to do that."

"I'm already done," Waylon says with a smile, "It's the least I can do. I can't thank you enough for letting me stay here."

"Don't thank me," Lynn says, pouring a cup of coffee, pouring a bit of milk and sugar inside and pushing it to Waylon, then making her own cup, "Anything as a ' _Fuck you_ ' to those bastards out there after you."

Miles watches her step closer to Waylon, leaning close. He can't hear what she says, but whatever it is makes Waylon's shoulders tense. She looks at him with an apologetic glint in her eyes. Waylon responds back, head tilted down to hide his words.

Waylon fills four plates with heapings of pancakes and eggs. Billy is lounging on the couch, sprawled out, eyes closed. _Sleeping_? Miles almost asks, before Blake lazily trudges into the living room. He's wearing long pajama pants, and a tight hoodie with a wide hood that hides his neck.

"Good morning," he says with a yawn. Lynn rounds the kitchen counter, handing Blake a hot coffee mug, "How was your date last night?" He asks her.

"Just great," Lynn says with a sip of her coffee, "Very professional. She held the door open for me, paid for my drinks, said she'd love to go out again. There was a little flirting, but nothing major," she gives Blake a kiss.

"Is....flirting and going out on dates common in journalism?" Waylon asks. Blake coaxes Waylon away from the stove, sitting him down at a chair, Lynn taking a seat next to him.

"Sometimes," Blake answers honestly, "Depends on the person. Could be travel arrangements, or a particularly raunchy interview. Miles has had enough of those, right?"

Miles scoffs, "Yeah, plenty of grabby cougars out there," Miles shivers at the memory of a particularly rowdy older woman who grabbed his ass during an interview. He didn't flip out, but he had no trouble ending the interview and sending her on her way.

"What do you do, Waylon? Besides expose corporate secrets?" Lynn asks with a smile.

Waylon seems almost excited to share, "I'm a technical engineer. I'm the guy who makes sure equipment runs smoothly and systems don't crash."

They talk over breakfast. Miles quips in every few minutes, but is otherwise content to sit back and watch the Langermanns prod and poke Waylon's personal life. Miles helps clean up, then excuses himself to use the shower. The bathroom is small, with a white porcelain sink and toilet, walls a pale pink with a white porcelain shower.

Billy sits on the toilet seat as Miles changes into a clean set of clothes, stickiness of the night before gone. Miles has a dark spot on his shoulder from where Blake bit down, but his reflection irritates him, and so he leaves any other marks to be discovered later.

"Did you hear what Lynn said to Waylon? Before Blake woke up?" Miles asks him from under his breath.

"She apologized," Billy says, watching Miles carefully. While it should feel invasive, Miles feels like he's just being watched by a friend as he does something meaningless, like laundry, "She said she was sorry for what happened to him."

"What did he say back?"

"That she didn't send him there, so she shouldn't apologize."

Miles exits the bathroom. Blake and Lynn are on the couch, still engrossed in their conversation with Waylon. Separated, the Langermanns had their own styles. Lynn preferred a light - hearted approach, closing personal space to become your new best friend, prodding at all your weak points. Blake was akin to a friendly neighbor, who you've known for years, easy to slip a secret or two into his ear. Together, they were a force to be reckoned with, letting their combined personalities lull someone into a comfortable air. Waylon looked perfectly content between them.

"You got any laundry, Park? I'm gonna head down to the laundromat down the street."

Waylon grabs his crutch, standing, "I just have a few shirts."

Miles waves a hand, "It's fine, stay here, I've got it."

"Really, Miles, I'm OK coming with you."

From behind Waylon, both Blake and Lynn give Miles a raised - eyebrow stare. He ignores them with a shrug of his shoulders.

"Alright, whatever you want to do."

Waylon leaves for the bathroom to wash and change.

"He said he was married, Miles," Blake says, leaning back into the couch.

Miles sighs, irritated, "It's not like that, Langermann. I'm not interested, and he's not interested."

"He seems dependent on you," Lynn points out, "How long have you been travelling together?"

"A few days. Not very long," Miles picks through his duffle bag for his older clothes, balling them up in a discarded plastic bag. He'll wait for Waylon to come back out to pick out his.

"How are you getting around?" Blake asks, "The Jeep?"

"Jeeps gone. We snatched a van from those Blackjaw mercs, been using that to get around. Great gas mileage."

"How are you on funds? We - " Blake starts.

Miles cuts him off, "We don't need anything from you two. You've done enough for us," Miles learned, from a very young age, that you couldn't accept anything from anyone - especially money.

"How are you with avoiding attention? No one recognized you two yet?"

"No, not that we've encountered so far. Any weird black vans cross through here?"

Lynn shakes her head, "None, not since those suits showed up. You know the type, the ones that come in and promise you a fat reward in exchange for your soul."

Miles nods, all too familiar. He's dealt with plenty of Murkoff assholes showing up to try and silence him, with threats and bribes. Miles never accepted, and never allowed himself to be chased off.

Waylon exits the hallway, cheeks rosy from his shower. Miles almost asks him if he was alright going in there, but quickly closes his mouth, aware of the audience.

Waylon grabs his dirty clothes, shoving them into the plastic bag. The two men say their goodbyes to the Langermanns, heading downstairs.

 

 

  
-

 

 

  
The street is still wet from the rain through the night, clouds scattered, sun peeking through at random intervals. The sun is a welcome sigh, giving the city a fresh, vibrant look. Miles said the laundromat is just three blocks away. Waylon tries to avoid the puddles where he can.

"How'd you sleep?" Miles asks, hands shoved in his pockets.

"Fine," Waylon answers. _I wasn't watching you and Blake, I swear I wasn't._

They walk in silence the rest of the way. The laundromat is lined wall - to - wall with dryers and washers, walls white with warning signs that exempted the store owners from liability for lost and damaged items. Waylon can remember all too well coming to his own neighborhood laundromat back in Arizona, the boys usually in tow.

Miles throws their combined clothes inside an empty washer, throwing in a laundry detergent pod he said he snatched from the Langermanns' apartment, dropping in a few spare coins and setting the machine to quick wash. Waylon sits quietly in a seat from the line of chairs the middle of the laundromat, watching their clothes spin. For almost eleven in the morning, the laundromat is fairly empty, just two other customers watching their clothes dry.

Waylon taps his fingers on his knees, debating with himself in his head. _Miles doesn't know I saw him and Blake. Billy didn't tell him, I know that. Should I talk to him about it?_

Waylon sits, pondering for five minutes, attempting to find a safe way to approach the topic. A thousand alternatives bounce around in his head. _What if they ask me to....join them? What do I say then? No? I couldn't just say no._

Waylon glances at his right. Miles looks bored, attention soaked up by the laundry, the crease marks and bags under his eyes lighter than usual. His eyelids drooped low, arms crossed and legs sprawled out.

"How do you feel about Blake and Lynn, Park?" Miles asks with a sigh.

"They're nice," Waylon answers quickly, pushing aside his own thoughts, anything to not think about what was going on between Miles and the Langermanns, "Almost too nice."

Miles grins with a sleepy nod, "That's them. They're just a couple of polite do - gooders."

"You're a polite do - gooder, too," Waylon tells him.

"I'm not that good, or polite," Miles shifts, pulling the brim of his hat down lower, "Wake me up when the wash is done, Park."

Waylon gives quiet understanding, focusing on the wash.

The machine shakes and churns, clothes inside a variety of blues, browns, greens, and whites, blending together, water slipping between. Waylon grabs at his own shirt.

Horrifically, he misses his asylum uniform. He misses the drab and disgusting color and scent, the scratchy material that rubbed awkwardly and irritatingly against his skin, how it was always a size too big and hung loose. It was less clothes, more a second skin. He left that skin behind, back at home. He wishes he brought them with him, at least to know they were there.

Waylon counts each turn of the washer. He loses track at 174, eyes widening when he sees the whites darken. The soapy water tinges with red. _Shit, shit shit shit._ Waylon, frantic, elbows Miles in the ribs.

" _Miles_!" He hisses.

Miles jolts, "What?"

"The laundry, look!"

Miles squints at the washer, leaning forward.

"There's still fifteen minutes left," he grunts, settling back into his seat.

"It's not the timer," Waylon stands, shuffling to the washer. The clothes are soaked in red, spinning in a gory vortex, "Look...I think it's blood."

Miles stands, looking closer, "What are you talking about? It's just water."

"It's...can't you fucking see?" _Is he blind_? Waylon attempts to shut the washer off. Miles' hand shoots out, grabbing his wrist. Waylon's heart stops.

"It's just water, Park. There's no blood."

There's an underlying irritation in Miles' words, his eyebrows knitted, tired and worried.

The look guts Waylon. He squeezes his eyes shut, digging the heel of his free hand into on eye, and opening them again. The wash is clear again, white bubbles of soap scattered in the water. _I'm crazy. I'm crazy._

Miles gently pulls Waylon back down to his seat. Waylon grips his crutch tightly.

They spend an hour in the laundromat, letting the clothes complete their wash cycle, then Miles throws them into the dryer. Their walk back to the apartment is quiet. Miles stops him before Waylon can knock on the apartment door.

"So what were you seeing in the laundry? Blood?"

 _Don't answer him. Don't answer him, "_ Blood in the washing machine, yeah."

Miles studies Waylon, his eyes moving up and down, scanning Waylon's body, "Have you had hallucinations before?"

"Not before Mount Massive. After they kidnapped me and forced me into the treatments I started having them. I thought..." _I thought that when I left they would go away._

Waylon tried not to think about his hallucinations. He tried to act like they weren't a big deal, that they weren't anything major. But they were, and they _hurt_ , and made people look at him differently. Like Miles was. Waylon could never tell what was real, what wasn't. He wouldn't know until it was all over. It was embarrassing.

"I'm sorry," Waylon says to the floor. He can't bear to look at Miles.

"It's nothing to be ashamed of."

Miles holds a hand on Waylon's shoulder, gently knocking on the door.


	29. Home Invasion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter took me so long to figure out. usually when i start writing, i take pieces that dont fit and put them in a separate word document, separate from the chapter. sometimes they evolve into another chapter, and sometimes they sit collecting dust. usually, these chapters range from 200 words to 500 words. the pieces i took totalled to 1,000 words. oof.
> 
> anyway, enjoy! oh boy.......... :)

Miles wasn't a doctor, had no PHD is what - fuck - ever - ology, but didn't need a MRI or PET scan to know that Waylon's brain suffered some irreparable damage. Miles has never heard of a case of someone having vivid hallucinations after a traumatic event. Flashbacks, maybe, but nothing like what was happening to Waylon. Then again, Miles has never seen anything like what he did at Mount Massive. He'll never know exactly what the Morphogenic Engine did to people. Billy made sure of that, _thank God._

Plus, the hallucinations would explain some of the odd behaviour. The twitchiness, the spacey look Waylon got sometimes, how he always looked _scared_. Miles originally just thought him paranoid from his trauma and experiences. He never thought of asking Waylon about any hallucinations. _Hell, if Billy couldn't talk through the radio, I'd think I was hallucinating him._

Miles makes a mental note to pay more attention when he knocks on the Langermanns' apartment door. Blake lets them in, Waylon walking through first.

Blake mutters something into Miles' ear, something Miles unconsciously blocks out. His attention is focused on Billy, who's crouched on the coffee table, staring hard at Lynn. _What the fuck is he doing?_

"Miles? Hello?"

Miles blinks hard, "Yeah? What?"

"What's wrong with Waylon?"

"Just not feeling well. Thought the fresh air would be good for him, but the walk was too much for his leg," _His problems aren't mine to share. Blake doesn't have to know._

"It's broken, should we bring him to a hospital?"

"His leg? It's not broken."

"Miles, he jumped from a two - story window. _It's broken_."

Miles stares at Blake, annoyed, "What are you talking - " He stops. _Right, it was broken. Billy fixed that._ Miles didn't know it was broken from a two - story fall.

Miles can still picture Waylon, curled up in a chair in his kitchen, looking like he was dragged through Hell since the day he was born. He was drenched in blood, grime, worse, clothes ripped, skin scarred. His leg was almost green from infection, his eyes wide with a stable terror that never really went away.

Miles realizes he never bothered to watch Waylon's video. _I still have the cameras in my duffle_.

"It's not broken anymore. He's fine."

Blake almost laughs, something halfhearted and amused, "In less than a week, it's all healed up? That's not possible."

Miles shrugs, "It's Hope's plus - side. He healed up Waylon's leg. It's not broken - not anymore."

Blake stares.

A pang of annoyance twists in Miles' chest, "What? You think I'd still be standing if Hope didn't have something to patch me up?"

Blake stands a little straighter.

Miles rubs his face, angry. _I'm sorry. Fuck, I'm sorry._

"There's a lot going on, Miles," Blake says, holding a warm hand onto Miles' shoulder, leaning in closer, "It's a lot for one person. I could barely understand what happened at Mount Massive, but a ghost? Living in you? That's more than any person can really handle. Maybe you should stay here for a little longer, just until the heat dies down a little."

Miles laughs, "That's nice and all, Langermann, but that's not an option for us," He glances to the couch from the corner of his eye. Waylon's body language is tighter than usual, but he keeps up a tired smile as he talks to Lynn, his crutch held between his knees, "Not with half the country after us. Another few days, maybe, but any longer? That'll get you two fucked over and involved in all of this."

"Miles, please - "

Miles shakes his head, palms up in defeat, "Don't make this harder than it has to be, Langermann."

"The only thing _hard_ here is that thick skull of yours."

Miles laughs, letting Blake lead him to the couch.

 

 

 

-

 

 

  
Later that night Miles orders takeout, pays for it despite Lynn and Blake's objections. They all hang out for the rest of the night, drinking the rest of the beer out of the Langermanns' fridge. Miles drinks twice as much as everyone in the room, but feels nothing. Waylon is nursing the same beer all night. Miles burns the memory of Blake and Lynn into his head, relaxed as always, using their combined intellect to suck more information out of Waylon.

After a few hours, Blake and Lynn are properly drunk. They both bid Miles and Waylon a goodnight, and shut their bedroom door.

Miles clears off the coffee table, taking all the empty bottles. Waylon downs his beer quickly, face puckering as he hands the empty bottle to Miles.

"You didn't have to drink it if you didn't want it, Park," Miles laughs, carefully dumping the bottles into the recycling bin.

"I didn't want to feel left out," Waylon replies with a grin, voice low, "I don't drink real often."

Billy's radio buzzes, "I never liked drinking," he says, appearing in the loveseat, "Everyone acts like it's so great. I never saw the appeal."

"Me neither," Miles says, rifling through his duffle, "But you get used to it."

Digging through his duffle, Miles brings out his phone and wallet, placing them on the coffee table.

"We're leaving tomorrow," Miles says, "I forgot to get rid of these before."

Miles pops open the back of his phone, removing the SIM card. He puts the phone body in the center of the table, pushing the SIM card to the side and taking out his wallet. It's full of hundred dollar bills, stuffed tight. Miles removes his credit and debit cards, and his ID, leaving the money inside and shoving it back into his pocket.

"Do your friends know we're leaving?" Waylon asks, watching.

Miles would prefer to leave early in the morning, cut and run without a word to save any heartfelt goodbyes. But the Langermanns deserved more than that, despite what every instinct in Miles' body screams at him.

"Do you have your wallet, Park?" Miles asks, ducking under and around the question.

Waylon nods, searching his pockets. He brings out his wallet, handing it to Miles.

"You know the first step to disappearing, Park? Besides leaving?"

Waylon shakes his head.

"You get rid of any identifying items. Payment cards, IDs, all of it," Miles carefully thumbs through Waylon's wallet. There's less than thirty dollars, and a faded picture of the Parks. Miles studies the photo for a second. Ricky and Ben are flanked by their parents, big smiles on everyone's faces. Miles takes the credit cards and Waylon's ID, handing the wallet back.

"Do you want my phone, too?" Waylon offers.

"No. As long as it's off, no one can track us," Besides that, Miles didn't want to take the phone. Unlike Miles, Waylon had friends and family. Miles didn't even need to flip through the phone's photo album to know there were hundreds of photos of Waylon's family inside. Reminders of birthdays, milestones in life, contact information for distant family and friends from college he barely speaks to. It didn't feel right to take it.

"Why take apart yours then?"

"What can I say? I'm paranoid."

Miles collects his phone and their combined cards, making a small pile in the center of the table, "Billy, can you take care of this?"

Billy scooches forward in his seat, holding a grey hand above the pile. Quickly, the plastic erodes down to nothing but small specks. Miles sweeps these off the table, depositing them in a nearby trash can. He returns to his duffle, taking out the cameras. Waylon's camera is grimy, and Miles' camera is still crusted with dried blood. He pops out the memory cards to both cameras, placing them in the middle of the table.

While Billy destroys the cameras, Miles walks into the kitchen, opening a cabinet and grabbing a plastic bag. He places his phone's SIM card, and the two memory cards, inside, searching the kitchen drawers. He finds a roll of long, clear fishing line _(Weird, didn't know either of them fished.)_ He ties the line around the neck of the bag.

"Can you do me a favor, Park?"

"Yeah?"

Miles gives him the bag, "Hold onto these. Just in case we need them."

Waylon looks at the bag, flipping it a few times in his hands, before putting it around his neck. It comes to the middle of his chest.

"Just in case," Waylon parrots, "It case of what?"

"It's just always good to have a backup. Murkoff is probably using everything in their arsenal to erase our shit from my account for the _Nevada Square_."

Waylon's hand is clenched around the bag, "Gotta make sure we still have everything. Got it."

Billy is staring out the window, soft moonlight peeking through. Miles sweeps the crumbs of the deteriorated cameras off the table, going back to throw out the pieces and fix the mess he made in the kitchen.

Waylon has shrugged off his jacket and his jeans, his brace slipped off, ready for bed. Miles stares from the kitchen, tracing the pale scars on Waylon's legs, eyes particularly drawing the the dent in the flesh of Waylon's calf. The dent is close to white against Waylon's tan skin. He watches Waylon's fingers dig into the skin, Waylon's head picking up.

They lock eyes.

Miles is the first to look away.

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

Waylon has never in his life met two more inquisitive or friendly people. Blake and Lynn were high school sweethearts, who basically did everything together. They talked to him with respect, dignity, didn't look at him with pity. They weren't careful with him, like he could shatter at a wrong word or a touch. They were understanding, and were interested in Waylon's life. Cared about how he felt.

Their attention was positive. _Good_. He was glad to have met them, even if it were only for two days.

"Thank you so much for your hospitality," Waylon says, honest, as he gives Blake a weak hug goodbye.

It's just past sunset at seven PM, the Nevada sky turning dark purple, the smallest of stars peeking out through dark clouds. They had slept the night before, spending the morning and afternoon with the Langermanns. Miles thought it was best to leave at night, where it would be easier to slip out of Middlegate and into Carson City.

"It's sad to see you two go," Blake says, holding Waylon by one shoulder. Blake is an inch shorter, and Waylon feels awkward towering over everyone at 6'3", "Wish you didn't have to leave."

"We don't really have a choice, Blake," Miles says, throwing his and Waylon's things inside the van, "Can't live on your couch for the next few years."

"We would let you," Lynn says.

"That would be an abuse of your good Catholic nature, Linnie," Miles says, slamming the doors with a smile.

Lynn scoffs, giving him a hug, "Be safe out there, alright?"

"Those fuckers won't catch us, don't worry."

Waylon gives Lynn a weak hug, "Good luck in Arizona. I hope you find out who that girl is."

Lynn gives him a grin, "We will, don't you worry."

Waylon climbs into the van. He watches the side mirror carefully, seeing Miles talk to the Langermanns. They exchange words, Lynn and Blake crowding around Miles. In front of Miles, they let their demeanors crack, and Waylon could see Blake's body straighten, sees Lynn speak with more fervor. Waylon watches Miles pull Lynn into a hug, then Blake. Waylon half expects a kiss goodbye, before Miles breaks the hug, entering the van and slamming the door.

Waylon stares into the side mirror until Miles turns out of the back parking lot of the complex.

Miles follows highway 50, Billy buzzing through radio channels. They don't need the Utah map anymore, but Waylon holds it tight.

"Listen to this," Billy says, switching to a station.

Waylon expects more news on Murkoff and Blackjaw. Instead, the Bruce Springsteen's _Dancing in the Dark_ comes through.

Call him an old man, but Waylon enjoyed the older artists. He loves bands like Tears for Fears, and Queen, bands who took the music scene by storm and wasted no time making their mark on the world. Waylon bobs his head to the song.

"You a fan of Springsteen, Billy?" Waylon asks.

"Very much. Momma had a collection of cassettes she listened to. She liked him, Johnny Cash, Elvis, a few others. It was...."

Billy stops. Waylon can feel the tension from the radio.

"Music was her last joy in life."

Waylon doesn't speak for the rest of the two hour trip to Carson City.

"Keep your head down, Park," Miles says, "Who knows who's waiting at my place."

Waylon obeys, sinking into his seat. He stares at Miles, watching his eyes dart around the road. It's just past nine at night, and the streets are dark, the amber - colored streetlights casting a low, hazy glow.

Miles slows in front of a gray building. It's clean, well taken care of, but on the ugly side. Waylon counts four stories, sixteen windows on the two sides he can see. Miles' head swivels back and forth, staring through the passenger window, then his driver's side window.

"This the place?" Waylon asks.

"Yeah. This has been my home for the past three years."

However, Miles doesn't stop. He keeps driving, rounding the block corner. He drives around the block, slow, before they make their way back to the apartment building. He's casing the place.

"Do you see anything, Billy?" Miles asks aloud.

There's silence, the radio still humming with classic rock music.

Miles pulls into a parking lot to the side of the building.

"You know the way in?" Miles says, body twisting to stare into the back of the van. Waylon turns as well, seeing nothing.

There's no answer, but Miles nods in understanding. He turns the van off.

"What are we doing?" Waylon asks in a half - whisper.

"Billy's gonna check the building out, see if there's any Blackjaw agents waiting. He's gonna take a quick look around the neighboring blocks, too."

Waylon nods, "OK."

Waylon breathes slow as he and Miles wait close to twenty minutes for Billy to return. In that time, Waylon tries to think of things to fill silence. _Should I bring up his job? Ask him about any crazy stories? Maybe he'd like to talk about -_

As he wonders, Miles taps him on the arm.

"It's clear. No lurkers, or black vans around. Building is clear."

The two men carefully exit the van. Miles quickly grabs their things from the back, the both of them walking briskly into the apartment building. The inside is painted plain white, the bottom floor tiled grey and black. Miles helps Waylon walk up three flights of stairs, keeping one hand on Waylon's lower back.

He can still feel Miles' stare from the night before. It wasn't an invasive stare, more curious. _Maybe I should have undressed myself completely, let him stare. It would have been fair, for what I did to him._

Waylon still feels guilty for what he did. It crawls under his skin, burrows into his brain, painful. He's tried to block the images of Miles and Blake out, tried not to think. _You're disgusting. Wretched filth._ He wishes he confessed back in Middlegate, with Blake still there. It was too late now. With his other arm occupied with his crutch, Waylon scratches at his face. Over, and over, nails digging into his skin. He wishes he could peel the skin from his skull, pluck out his eyes.

The hallway with Miles' apartment is bare, walls white, floors a dark grey, each door a cool blue. Miles leads them to the back of the hallway, to the right. He searches his pockets, then sighs with a roll of his eyes.

"I left my keys at your house," Miles says, more to himself than Waylon.

Miles pauses. On the other side of the door, there's a click, and it swings inward. Waylon takes a step back.

"It was Billy, Park," Miles says, "C'mon."

The inside of Miles' apartment was a mess. Furniture was knocked over, every cabinet in the open kitchen open, things strewn around the soft blue carpet. The walls are a pale grey and bare of any flourish.

 _"Shit,_ " Miles breathes, throwing off his hat. Waylon feels anger surge off Miles' body as he drops their things, rushing off around a corner. Waylon closes the door behind them, Billy's radio buzzing on his hip.

"There's no one here, Waylon," Billy tells him, "It's alright."

Waylon brushes off his denim hat, throwing it down and carefully stepping over the dropped duffle bags, walking more into the apartment. The living room is furnished with a coffee table, a TV, and a couch. The stained wooden coffee table is flipped over, the stand under the TV emptied of it's contents, papers and other objects throws about, the weathered blue couch is angled awkwardly.

While Waylon hears Miles stomp around the next room, Waylon carefully flips the coffee table back on its feet. _It's better than standing around doing nothing while Miles freaks out_. _This is his home. I can't imagine how he feels_. He collects the papers on the ground, as well as DVD cases that were thrown around. As he places the items on the table, he studies the DVDs. Waylon picks up case after case of various _Fast & The Furious_ movies, as well as other movies Vin Diesel has starred in, such as _The Chronicles of Riddick_ movies and _xXx_.

Weirdly, Miles only owns movies with Vin Diesel starring in them. _Well, we all have our pleasures in life. Vin Diesel isn't a bad actor, and I'm not one to judge.....at least it's not porn._

Waylon attempts to push the couch straight, coming to the back left of the furniture. He sets his crutch down, palms flat and up against the back of the couch.

"Park?" Miles calls. Waylon turns his head. Miles looks... _.shaken_ , his collected demeanor cracked, "What are you doing?"

"Cleaning up," Waylon says, pushing. The heavy couch doesn't budge. Waylon feels a force grab the back of his coat, pulling him away. Waylon takes a few steps back. Miles quickly pushes the couch into place.

" _Motherfuckers_ tore my place apart," Miles growls, "All my shits everywhere. _Fuck_ \- " Miles kicks his couch. His foot goes clean through the back of the couch, ripping a hole. That just enrages Miles even more.

Waylon takes a few more steps back, back flat against the door.

He watches Miles swear, yell, pace around the apartment as he fixes things in the kitchen, picking up debris and mess. Miles' eyes are wide, face twisted into an angry grimace. His body shakes subtly.

 _They would have killed him if he was here. They were looking for him, for his evidence....maybe even for me_. Waylon has never been robbed before, but his neighbor had back in Arizona. They were frightened, and felt like nothing could be done to fix their hurt. It was a violation of the self. Miles must feel the same way.

Carefully, slowly, Waylon pulls away from the door. He feels cold touch his chest.

"Don't," Billy breathes through the radio, barely heard through Miles' yelling, "Let him be."

Waylon ignores Billy's warnings, pacing carefully to the kitchen. Waylon isn't scared of Miles, but it doesn't take a genius to know when to avoid a man in a bad mood. A bad mood doesn't even _cover_ what Miles must be experiencing right now. But Waylon is positive - _positive_ \- that even though it's _his_ fault that they're in this mess, Miles would never harm him.

Miles is slamming the cabinets shut. Waylon can see the wood crack under the force, but doesn't stop moving.

" _Please_ Waylon, you'll get hurt \- "

Miles' back is turned as he organizes something on the counter.

"Miles?" Waylon calls, projecting his voice. It comes out as a weak squeak as he stands in the kitchen threshold.

Miles glances over his shoulder, "What?"

Waylon pauses. _He'll think I'm stupid. He doesn't want to hear about my old neighbors_. Quickly, Waylon's brain bounces a different reason.

"You're being really loud," Waylon tells him, hands wringing at the bag around his neck, "Neighbors might call the police."

Miles twists around, teeth grit and his jaw tense. Miles looks down, closing his eyes. He takes a few slow, deep breaths. Waylon knows them to be the same breathing exercises that Miles showed him at the house. They stand in silence for an achingly long time, Waylon's leg starting to throb.

"I'm sorry," Miles says eventually, turning back to the counter. He moves objects around, going and setting a chair back upright at a small table in the kitchen.

"It's fine," Waylon breathes, hands clenched tight. He feels a cold cover his knuckles, easing his hands loose.

"It's really not fucking _fine_ , Park," Miles bites, "Look at this fucking place. What were they trying to find?"

Waylon walks into the kitchen. The pressure on his leg painful, he sits down at the table, "The cameras," He takes a deep breath, "You. Me."

Looking around, Waylon looks at a vent in the upper wall, feeling a shiver crawl up the back of his spine. He's seen enough spy movies in his life to know what a dangerous corporation could do, "Maybe they were planting things. Cameras. Microphones."

Miles freezes.

"Billy? Check the vents."

"Roger," Billy replies through the radio, voice strained. _Scared_. Waylon wonders if Billy had ever seen Miles in this state before.

Waylon sits still and quiet as Miles and Billy comb through the apartment. Waylon counts the cabinets in the kitchen - eight - and the drawers - six. In around twenty minutes, Miles comes back to the kitchen.

"Nothing. Me and Billy didn't find anything. That was a good call though, Park," Miles' coat is off, his hands on his hips.

 _Even if there were any, it would be too late for us anyway. They would have been alerted by now._ Waylon tries to smile, but can only show a tight - lipped grimace.

Miles grabs his crutch from the living room, "C'mon, let me show you where you're gonna sleep."

Waylon stands with the crutch, following Miles. The hallway is bare of any decorations. There's two doors on the right, one on the left. Miles opens one door on right.

"This is the bathroom," Miles shows, opening a wooden door. The bathroom is all white, floor tiled. Toiletries and bathroom items are thrown around on the floor. Waylon can see some on the bottom of the shower.

Moving back to the left, Miles opens a door with a brass doorknob, "This is where you'll be sleeping."

The inside of Miles' bedroom is just as depressing as Waylon was scared it would be. The walls are a dark grey, a queen sized bed in the middle of the far right wall. The bed is a mattress and a box spring, dressed with dark grey sheets. Next to the bed is a nightstand with a cracked digital clock, blinking numbers of a different time. There's clothes and personal items thrown around the room, a built in closet to the far left is open, clothes pulled and hanging. Different from the walls of the rest of the house, Miles' room is adorned with band posters. Blink - 182, Green Day, - dozens of others. It's the only bit of personality in the entire apartment.

It saddens Waylon. Miles has ' _friends_ ,' but what about family? There's not one photo of Miles, current or old, or of any other person. It tugs at Waylon's heart to imagine Miles laying in this large bed, alone, staring up at the postered ceiling.

Miles leaves and returns quickly with Waylon's bag. He sets it down, pushing past Waylon to clear the bed of items. He brushes everything onto the floor.

"It's more of a mess than I left it," Miles says. He picks up his broken alarm block, making a face and tossing it back onto the nightstand, "What time is it?"

"It's almost ten," Billy responds through the radio, "Not so late," _Does he sound....tired?_

"I think it's late enough to get to bed," Miles says, "What do you think, Park?"

Waylon stares at him. _He wants to pretend that his apartment isn't a mess and just fucking sleep it off? Is that how he deals with stress, just ignore it?_

Miles frowns, "What?" His shoulders square, defensive. He's holding himself together by a string.

Waylon's tongue darts out to wet his dry lips, taking in a sharp breath.

"Are you OK?"

 

 

-

 

 

If you were to look up the word " _fucked_ ," in the dictionary, a big picture of Miles Upshur would be taking up the whole page.

 _"Are you OK?_ " Waylon's eyebrows crease together.

 _Does it look like I'm OK?_ Miles wants to yell. He wants to tear apart the apartment worse than it already, wants to break every window, rip every door off it's hinges, scream and scream and _scream_ until he can't scream anymore. Murkoff entered his home, desecrated what was _his_. Miles wanted _blood_. He wanted _vindication_.

 _Revenge_. It beat hard through his blood, the mark on his chest burning. If he took out his anger on something, _someone_ , he would feel better. He would feel _much, much better_.

But he can't act like that. Not with Waylon here. The thought of Waylon getting hurt kept Miles in check.

Billy is peering over Waylon's shoulder, frown creased with worry. _He thinks I'll hurt Waylon....or maybe he thinks I'll hurt him._ Both their stares are hard and worried.

 _Stop looking at me_ , Miles wants to scream, _stop_. He's shaking, the exposed bone of his fingers digging into his palms.

"No," Miles says, "I'm not."

Waylon, slow, props his crutch against the doorframe. Billy's eyebrows raise, his head snapping to look at Waylon.

Miles eyes Waylon, up and down. _What is he doing_? Miles doesn't move from his spot.

Miles holds his breath as Waylon's arms fold over his shoulders. Miles keeps his arms rigid at his side, hands balled into tight fists. Waylon's hands are flat against Miles' back, head tucked into the space between Miles' head and shoulder.

It takes _everything_ in Miles not to collapse into Waylon. It's a gentle, cautious embrace, their chests pressed together. Miles can feel Waylon's heart through his chest, feeling each shaky breath Waylon inhales and exhales. Miles closes his eyes, letting his muscles loosen.

His hands running over Waylon's back, Miles buries his head into Waylon's shoulder. A deep, angry groan escapes him.

"I'm _stupid_ ," Miles grunts out, gripping Waylon's coat, "I'm really the _dumbest bastard_ on this planet."

Waylon doesn't respond. Instead, his arms hold Miles a little tighter.

They stay like that for who knows how long. For a while, Miles stopped _worrying_. It was just him, and just Waylon. Miles is surprised. Given Waylon's usual demeanor, he would be the last person on the planet Miles would expect to approach him.

Waylon is the first to peel back. His eyes are wet, but no tears fall, expression neutral, yet soft. _Not as delicate as I thought_ , Miles thinks to himself.

"Can I help you clean up?" Waylon asks, voice low and careful.

 

 

-

 

  
Miles sat Waylon on the edge of the bed as he picked up item after item. Waylon attempted to pick up a stray t - shirt, but Miles insisted that he was going to clean. _Idle hands are the Devil's playground, as the saying goes._ Clothing gets stuck on a dresser across from the bed, a big mirror above catching Miles' busy reflection. Papers and other items get stuck on top of the nightstand.

Miles' mood doesn't seem to have lifted any higher, but he's not shaking, and he doesn't sound angry. _That's progress,_ Waylon thinks to himself. For the first time this week, _Waylon_ was the one to calm a situation, _not_ Miles. He didn't listen to Billy, even if it was easier to let Miles vent than to talk. It would have been easier to cower in the corner. But Waylon _didn't_. He stayed calm, and in turn, Miles calmed down.

When the floor is cleared and the bed's blankets are pulled back into place, Miles puts his hands on his hips. Waylon watches him bend down and lay on his stomach, longways and parallel to his bed. He lifts the bottom of the nightstand up, producing a small black box. It's about the size of a hardcover book. Miles sits next to Waylon on the bed, entering numbers into a combination lock on the side, the lid popping open.

The first thing Waylon notices is faded box of bullets. The box is weathered, Waylon can only make out the bullet type - 9mm - but nothing else. Then he notices two stacks of cash, side - by - side, two hundred - dollar - bills face - up.

"Lucky us, they never found this," Miles takes out the bullets, placing them on the bedside table. He takes one of the stacks, handing it to Waylon, "Count this for me."

Waylon is happy to. He's always been good with counting and calculating. If he hadn't become a technical engineer, an accountant would've been just as good a career. He can still see himself in his Honor's Statistics class, getting A after A on test after test.

There's a collection of old and new bills, twenties, fifties, and hundred - dollar - bills stacked neatly.

"I count $550," Waylon says. Miles is still counting his stack.

"$550," Miles confirms a few moments later. Miles holds his hand out for the money Waylon is holding, Waylon dutifully slipping it into his palm. Miles places the box down, leaving the room with both stacks and the box of ammo.

Waylon's eyes are drawn to the black box. It's a normal lockbox, with a combination lock on the side. On the bottom of the box, the one thing Miles didn't take out, was a creased photograph. Waylon carefully picks the photo up. It has to be years old, given the fade and worn, smooth from age. It's small and square, most likely from an old Polaroid.

The image showed a woman and a young child sitting at a bare table. The subjects of the photo lit by the flash, the background is hidden by darkness. The woman is on the thinner side, her dark hair long and in a perm, a cigarette in her hand. She gave the camera an inactive smile, dark eyes droopy. The child was a boy, maybe three years old, with curly dark hair and big dark eyes that matched the woman's. Unlike the woman, the boy gave the camera a gap - toothed smile. It reminded Waylon of the countless times his own sons have posed for photographs.

The longer he looks, the more he recognizes the boy. The boy's nose is square, and he has a wide jaw, rounded by pudginess. Waylon's eyebrows knit. _Is that - ?_

The photo is snatched from Waylon's fingers. Waylon flinches, arm raising reflexively to shield his face. He quickly puts his arm back down.

Miles' face is tight, eyes fixed down on the photo. His chest rises and falls slowly.

Without another word, Miles turns on his heel, walking back out of the room.


	30. Neighbor

"I'm sorry," Waylon says, standing in the hallway as Miles picks up the mess Murkoff left behind in the bathroom. Everything gets thrown in the vanity drawers. The tip of the photo sticks out from the back of Miles' jeans.

Waylon grabs at the plastic bag around his neck, fingering the fishing line.

When Miles decides the bathroom is in acceptable shape, he maneuvers past Waylon, going to the second door on the right side of the hallway. He opens the door, slipping inside, then slamming it shut behind him.

Waylon stares down. The doorknob is dented with with the grooves of fingers.

Half of Waylon wants to slink back into Miles' bedroom, sit down, and wait for Miles to call him. _Obedience is better_. It worked for him in the asylum - the beatings stopped when Waylon stopped fighting, when he kept his mouth shut and did what he was told. Half the time, Waylon wasn't even in his own head, gone in some numb and dark place while his body was moved and used.

The other half of Waylon hesitates, then bangs a fist softly on the door to this second room. Waylon waits. When there's no response, Waylon bangs his fist again on the door.

"Miles?" Waylon's voice pitches slightly high from his nervousness, "I'm sorry I went through your things - "

The door swings open, Waylon pitching forward. Miles catches him, standing him straight, shutting the door behind.

This second room is smaller than the bedroom, with white walls instead of grey, but with quadruple the mess. It was as if a tornado flew through after Murkoff showed up. There's no furniture besides a desk with all the drawers pulled out, and an office chair that was flipped over. A tall standing lamp was missing it's shade, leaning against the desk. Papers cover the floor, giving the carpet another layer, crumpling under Miles' and Waylon's shoes. Frames line where the floor met the wall, glass shattered. Other than stacked documents, the desk is empty.

With the light of the lamp to his back, Miles' front is hidden by shadow.

"They took my desktop," Miles says, exasperated, " _Goddamnit_."

Waylon pushes to see the positive in the situation, "That shouldn't matter though, right? You posted everything from my laptop. We have the files, not them," He solidifies this by grabbing the bag around his neck.

Miles takes a deep breath, "You're right. _Fuck it_ , you're _right_ ," He runs his hands over his face, "Fuck _me_ , you're right."

Miles stoops down to start collecting papers. Waylon slowly bends down as well, but Miles holds a hand up.

"Don't, I got it."

Waylon's chest swells with....

_What, bravery? No, no, no...something else._

Not bending his bed leg, Waylon, with some effort, picks up stray papers. Eventually, he sets his crutch on the carpet, scooping up files and the like, limping over to Miles' desk to set them down. It takes around ten minutes, and the whole time Miles is giving him a worried glare. When the papers are off the floor, Miles opens the door to the room.

"Get out," he says, tired, _exhausted_.

This time, Waylon complies.

Miles slowly and gently closes the door.

The radio on Waylon's hip buzzes.

"Kitchen," Billy says, voice barely above a whisper.

Waylon walks to the kitchen, sitting down at the table. Now that it's cleaner, Waylon can see just how simply Miles was living. There's no sign of life in this apartment. If not for the mess on the coffee table, the living room could have passed as a home decor display.

Waylon unclips the pocket radio, placing it on the table.

"Waylon," Billy says, his voice grave, "Waylon that was dangerous."

Waylon almost laughs, "What? _Miles_? You think Miles would hurt me?"

Billy doesn't respond. Waylon's face falls.

"Would he?"

"No," Billy says quickly, "He wouldn't. Not on purpose."

"Billy," Waylon's manic now, speaking quickly, feeling his brain run a thousand MPH in his head, "After all the shit he's been through? He can't keep it all bottled up like that. It's not healthy. It's not right."

Billy doesn't respond.

The radio cuts out.

 

  
-

 

  
Miles sweeps up the broken glass of his office. Every frame that was hung on his office wall was on the ground. It was clear that boots stomped the frames into shards.

_It was a good call to give Park those memory cards. Now every time I look at him I'll remember he has the footage._

Miles tries not to be so embarrassed. _I really acted like a fool, screaming like I was a headless chicken_. Sure, all of Miles' past and current articles were on that computer, but nothing he really needed was on there. Nothing that mattered.

Miles sweeps the broken glass into the metal trash bin in the corner. He takes the photo from his back pocket, sitting down on the carpet. He can't remember where or why the photo was taken, but he remembers being happy. His thumb traces his mother's visage. He can't help but notice the dilation of her pupils, and he's stared at this photograph for thousands of hours before. _Of course she was high._

Miles doesn't think he ever saw his mother while she was sober. Didn't matter if it was pills, drugs, or alcohol, she always had something in her system. He always wondered what a conversation with her would be when she was sober, and not shaking from withdrawal. _Too bad I'll never have that chance_.

Miles stands, tucking the photograph back into his pocket.

When he enters the living room, Waylon is staring at Billy's radio in the center of the kitchen table, mouth formed into a worried frown.

"Park? What's wrong?"

Waylon's head snaps up, quickly reclipping the radio to his belt, "Nothing, nothing," he stands, but Miles quickly crosses the room to ease him back into his seat.

"Do you want a coffee?"

Waylon shakes his head, "I'm fine."

Miles turns on his instant coffee maker. While he waits for the water to warm up, Miles sits down across from Waylon.

"I'm sorry that I acted like that, Park," Miles says, hands folded, "I'm just..." _Angry. I'm angry, and I'd never forgive myself if you got hurt because of it._

"It's alright, Miles. I can't imagine what's going through your head," Waylon's eyes scan him once, twice, three times, "Do you wanna....talk about it?"

Miles opens his mouth to reply, when a loud knock on the door reverbs through the room. Waylon and Miles freeze, locking eyes. Miles puts one finger up to his lips, motioning Waylon to get down. Waylon slides off his chair quietly, kneeling under the table. Miles stands while another knock rings through, louder this time. He steps slowly and quietly to the door, bending down to grab his gun from his duffle. Keeping the gun hidden behind his back, he opens the door.

As soon as Miles' opens the door, loud barking shook through the hallway. Miles' next door neighbor, Chrissy, and her dog stand in front of the apartment door. Miles deflates, quickly tucking the gun into his waistband.

" _Christ_ , Chrissy, you didn't have to knock so loud."

"Well I had to make sure it was you and not some crackhead in there!"

Chrissy is a young woman, skinny and blonde, makeup done. Miles recognizes the big cheetah - print coat and the high - heeled boots as her work outfit. Her dog, Brutus, is an old black Labrador that bared his teeth. Weird, Brutus never acted like this before.

" _Miles_!" Chrissy gasps, "You look like _shit_!"

Miles rubs his temples, the dog's barking piercing inside his head, "I'm not talking until that dog is _gone_."

Chrissy pouts, but quickly opens her apartment door, up, putting her pooch inside. As soon as the dog is away, still barking through the door, Chrissy enters Miles' personal space, smelling like the sweet perfume that she usually soaked herself with.

" _Where_ have you _been_!" She demands, "There were these....these _assholes_ that didn't look like no SWAT I've ever seen - "

Miles puts his hands up in an attempt to interrupt her, but she gasps even louder.

"What the fuck _happened_ to your _hands_!? Oh my _God_ , are you _OK_?" Chrissy's voice raises louder, "Christ, Miles, what the _fuck_ is going on - "

" _Chrissy, for fuck's sake, can you stop. Screaming_?" Miles' voice raises.

Chrissy's red lips purse tight.

Miles sighs, "Thank you."

He invites her inside.

 

  
-

 

  
"It's alright, Park, you can come out now," Waylon hears Miles call, shutting the door.

Still wary, Waylon peeks out from under the table. He watches Miles quickly usher in a petite blonde in a large coat into his apartment, slamming the door behind. _Who's that_? Quickly, Waylon ducks under the table again, whispering into the radio.

"Maybe don't turn your radio on, OK?"

The radio buzzes on, then off. _Understood_.

Waylon carefully crawls out from the table, wincing as he stands.

"Who's _that_?" The woman asks loudly, hanging onto Miles' arm, painted lips in a big smile, "Miles, I didn't realize you had _company_. Was that what all that yelling was?"

" _Chrissy_!" Miles snaps. Waylon could see a vein in his neck pop.

_Relax, relax. Miles would never bring someone in that would hurt you. He wouldn't even call your name if he did. It's fine, you'll be fine._

Nerves settling, Waylon straps himself back into his crutch. Deciding to commit to be this...this _whatever_ the woman - Chrissy - thought he was, Waylon approaches the two. He sticks a hand out.

"Sorry, I didn't realize we were being so noisy," Waylon says with the nicest, most polite smile he can muster.

Chrissy gives Waylon a knowing smile, teeth slightly yellow from cigarettes. Miles is staring like Waylon blew up half the country. The woman extends a delicate hand, nails painted red to match her lips. Waylon shakes it gently.

"Miles put on the coffee pot. Would you like a cup Miss....?"

"It's just Chrissy to you, Handsome," she says with a tinny laugh. She turns back to Miles, "About time you brought home a _gentleman_."

Waylon sweats at the way Miles' mouth purses.

Chrissy shrugs her coat off. Underneath the leopard print, Chrissy wore a tight black crop top that revealed plenty of cleavage, and a black miniskirt with fishnets. She drapes the coat on the couch, looking around.

" _Jeez Louise_ , Miles, they really did a number on this place, huh?" The woman gasps, turning on her heels, accentuating her words with her hands, "Miles, if you're in some legal trouble, don't even _worry_ about it. I'm no snitch. If you're trying to hide, don't even _worry_ , those assholes already tried askin' me questions already. I think I still have their business card..."

Chrissy reaches into the pocket of her coat, pulling out silver card. Before Waylon can grab a peek, Miles snatches it out of her hand. His tense face falls, sucking in a deep breath. He looks at Waylon, flipping the card. Murkoff's corporate symbol shows.

Waylon has stared at that symbol every day he was at the asylum. The longer he stared, the less it looked like a M for Murkoff.

It looked like a guillotine.

"What?" Chrissy looks between the two men.

"For _Christ's sake_ , Chrissy, haven't you watched the news?" Miles crumples the card in his hand, yelling, "Don't you have any idea what the fuck is going on?"

"I don't know why you're _yelling_ , but I know all about the asylum whatever and the dick cutting but.... _God,_ Miles, I thought you were dead," Chrissy plops down on the couch, hands in her lap. Waylon noticed a butterfly tattoo on her right shoulder.

"Why does everyone think I'm dead?" Miles snaps.

"The footage stopped after that cloud thing - hey, are you gonna tell me what happened? And - oh, shit - " She stands again, extending her hand in the same fashion Waylon did, "I didn't get your name, Handsome."

Waylon swallows hard, shaking, "I'm...I'm Waylon," he gently takes her hand.

Chrissy's thin eyebrows shot up into her forehead, mouth falling into an O shape, "You're the other guy! From the footage! Shit, I thought you died too!"

 _Maybe that would've been better_ , Waylon thinks to himself, _better than running around like this_. _It would save everyone the trouble._

Chrissy brushes short blonde hair out of her face, tucking it behind her ear to show off small, thin hoop earrings, "Oh, you don't have to worry about me snitching on you neither, Waylon, any friend of Miles is a friend of mine."

Waylon holds his breath, "And you two are....friends?"

Chrissy waves a hand, "We're neighbors. I've lived here a year longer than Miles has. He was just the nicest guy I've ever met, seriously, treated me with some _real_ respect. He pops by my club every so often to drink by himself or with a new b - "

Miles stands between Waylon and Chrissy, "Coffee? You wanted a coffee, right? I'm making some right now so - "

"I'm only gonna sit down if you two are gonna tell me the whole story," Chrissy says, arms crossed.

Waylon watches Miles close his eyes, inhale, exhale, then shake his head.

"Fine."

 

  
-

 

  
"......so now we're on the run. Lucky us, we haven't been caught by anyone just yet."

Chrissy holds a cigarette in one hand, listening intently while her other was grasped around her coffee mug. Throughout their retelling, Chrissy quipped a question here or there, but otherwise stayed quiet as she listened.

Waylon let Miles do most of the talking. His skin bristled when he realized that Miles was leaving out the parts about Billy. Billy was still there, listening, even if Waylon couldn't see him. _It's wrong to talk like he doesn't exist._ But Chrissy already seems a little off - put by their story. It would have been better to keep that to themselves.

"So where are ya' headed now?" She asks, brown eyes flitting between the two men, taking a long drag.

"Well.... _here_ ," Waylon responds.

"And....what, you both were just gonna live out your days as squatters here? Like, if these jerkoffs are after you, you can't _stay_ in the first place they looked!"

Waylon flushes. Miles said they were heading to Nevada to his apartment, but nothing after. More importantly, Waylon didn't know how long he would be away from his family. There's still media uproar, Miles' and his faces plastered on every screen in America, Blackjaw still hunting them. _It's only been a week, but it feels like I've been gone longer._

Waylon tries to think back on better memories, where they're all smiling and Lisa and he aren't worried about bills, back in Arizona, back before he got that _fucking_ letter.

Manicured nails snap in front of Waylon's face, "Waylon? Hello?"

Waylon snaps his eyes up, sitting back, "Yeah?"

"Are you OK? You look a little pale," Chrissy snubs her cigarette out in a glass ashtray that Miles pulled out from a drawer, "You want a smoke?"

Waylon shakes his head in a wordless no.

"We aren't staying for a long time, Chrissy. I just wanted to grab some shit, sleep here, then get out in the early morning," Miles takes her empty mug, filling it to the brim and handing it back to her.

"So...where to next?"

Miles sighs through his nose, "I think it's better if you don't get too involved, Chrissy, we've already - "

Chrissy snorts, "I'm already _talking_ to you, how much more 'involved' can I get!" She lights another cigarette and taps out ash into the ashtray, "You don't have to worry about me saying anything. You know that. But, hey, if you need some place to hang out until this all blows over..."

Chrissy inhales a drag, exhaling with a coy smile. She slides a hand over the table to hold Miles' free hand.

"....my door is always open."

 _Oh_.

Annoyance bubbles in Waylon's chest. _Another '_ friend _'..... how many '_ friends _' does Miles have? Is this just going to be how it is for the next few...who knows how long? Us, bouncing around from the house of one 'friend' to the next until we're dead? Or worse, if they catch us. What if they come to their homes, snatch them away just like us? What -_

Waylon catches himself, slumping down into his seat. _It's not fair for you to judge. As much as Miles doesn't want to say it, people care about him. They deserve to know he's at least alright...._

_Shit. Oh shit._

Waylon's parents still don't know he's gone. His sister has probably called him a thousand times over. He can already imagine them bombarding Lisa with calls, worried sick. _I wonder what Lisa told them. Are they still at the house? Is Frank still there? How are they doing?_

 _Probably better, now that we're gone_.

"Waylon? Hellooo?" Chrissy's thin brows crease, "You sure you're OK?"

Waylon's face flushes, "I'm fine, really."

Chrissy eyes him over, then snuffs out her cigarette.

"I think I've overstayed my welcome here, gentlemen, it's getting pretty late," She pushes herself from the table, extending her hand, "It was nice to meet you, Waylon. I hope I see you again sometime."

Waylon rises, taking her hand, "I hope so too," He tells her, and he means it.

Miles escorts Chrissy to the door, stepping out into the hallway with her.

As the door closes, Billy's radio turns on.

"She was very, very, cute," Billy says, his smile heard through the radio.

Waylon doesn't laugh.

 

 

-

 

  
Miles is gone for a couple minutes. Coming back through the door, Waylon has gotten up and filled his coffee cup again. Miles gently takes the cup. Taking a hard look, Waylon see's the circles under Miles' eyes have gotten darker. He smells like Chrissy had taken her perfume and dumped it over his head.

"How old is Chrissy?" Waylon asks.

"She's only twenty," Miles says with a shrug, "I invite her over sometimes, ask how she's doing."

"What does she do? She mentioned a club," Waylon sits back down at the table, Miles joining him.

"She dances at this place a couple blocks over. She likes it, says the other girls there are nice."

"Accent was strange, she's not from here is she?"

"No, she said she moved from New York for a fresh start," Miles leans back in his seat, rubbing his face. His beard in filling out, and he scratches at his jaw, "She's doing well. She was seventeen when we met, living with an older guy. I used to hear them screaming at each other through the wall."

Waylon's heart drops in his chest, "No family?"

"Has a mom. She's closed - lipped about why she left, but it had something to do with the mom. Other than that," Miles waves a hand.

"What happened to the boyfriend?"

"I persuaded her to kick him out...idiot only put her name on the lease because his credit was in the shits. Wasn't hard to call the landlord and have him evicted."

Waylon looks down at his coffee, "Doesn't seem fair to leave her behind."

Miles shakes his head, "None of this is fair, Park."

They finish their coffees at 12:32 in the morning. Miles insists on Waylon sleeping in his bed.

"Remember what I said about couch surfing?" Miles brings up, "It's not good for a bad leg."

Waylon attempts to bicker, but Miles quickly shuts the door, leaving Waylon in darkness.

The weight of the day sheds off Waylon's shoulders as he undresses. He's only wearing his boxer - briefs and a white tank top, crawling into Miles' bed. The sheets are thick, pillows comfortably arranged so it cradles Waylon's head comfortably. Waylon tilts his head into the pillows. It smells like Miles, stronger than when he was sleeping in the basement of the Park house. Miles' scent is a mix of a natural musk, and some cologne. Waylon takes one of the pillows, holding it to his chest.

Without Miles next to him, Waylon feels like the warmth has been sucked out of the room, leaving him with the chill of loneliness.

Blackness lulls Waylon into a sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took so long to write AH.....also when Chrissy speaks i always thought of Harley Quinn lol.....
> 
> Fun fact, but I almost gave Miles ties to the mafia but i was like....god you are a stupid mfer huh..........
> 
> enjoy :)


	31. Chase

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning for sexual content, mild illusions to past sexual abuse, homophobic language, car wrecks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow ths chapter took a long time to write..... srry it took so long LUL i had to rewrite this chapter a few different times so it didn't sound terrible.
> 
> also im self projecting on Waylon i hope everyone likes how i wrote him this chapter :(
> 
> Anyway, enjoy :) maybe someone will be fucking happy by the next chapter

Tight yelling jolts Waylon from his dreamless sleep. Waylon sits up, rubbing his eyes. _What was that?_

He waits in the moonless dark, until he hears what sounds like a broken sob through the bedroom door. _Was that Miles?_

Fearing the worst, Waylon quickly climbs out of Miles' bed. He doesn't bother trying to pull on any of his clothes, leaving his brace and crutch behind. Waylon cautiously throws open the door, peering out from the hallway. The hallway is dark. Bravely, _stupidly_ bravely, Waylon ventures out further. The sobbing is louder. The living room is dark, save for one dim lamp in the corner.

 _I guess Miles didn't go to bed after all_.

Waylon walks closer, seeing over the couch. The coffee table is littered with empty alcohol containers. Waylon counts twelve bottles, eight beers, twenty beverages altogether. Quickly glancing into the kitchen, Waylon sees the fridge is open - and empty. _Was that all Miles had?_

Miles' form is hunched over, sitting on the couch, his head in his hands.

Waylon, carefully, rounds the couch.

"....Miles?"

Miles jumps, sitting up quickly, wiping his face. So quickly, in fact, Waylon jumps back a step.

"Park, uh - " Miles coughs, "What are you doing up?"

"You woke me up," Waylon eases down next to him. The DVR clock hits 2:22.

Miles meets his eye, and Waylon's heart sinks. Miles' eyes are bloodshot and wet.

"I'm sorry," Miles breathes, shaky, "Go to bed, I won't - " Miles falls forward into his hands, "Just go to bed."

 _Go to bed_ , Waylon's brain screams, _go to bed._

_Miles wouldn't go to bed._

Waylon's hands shake as he tentatively reaches to Miles' back. With a featherlight touch, Waylon grazes over Miles' shirt, slow, careful. Waylon's heart almost leaps out of his chest when Miles let's out a pained cry. Waylon applies slightly more pressure, bringing his other hand to rub at Miles' shoulders.

Waylon remembers doing this to his wife countless times before. Lisa was always stressed, with an ache in her back and shoulders. He used to like laying her down, treating her nice when the boys weren't around.

Doing this for Miles wasn't as intimate, but the action felt just as raw.

Digging his thumbs into Miles' shoulders, Miles groans, softly, pitifully.

Waylon doesn't get very far, as Miles sits up. Waylon pulls his hands back to settle on his thighs. Miles exhales, throwing his hands up.

"What are we doing, Park? Like, what are we fucking _doing_? Running around....waiting to get picked up by hitmen - "

"Don't," Waylon insists, "You're drunk."

"I'm not _drunk_ ," Miles snaps, "Twenty beers, Park, _twenty_ fucking beers. And I'm not feeling _any_ of it," Miles picks up a beer can off the floor, crushes it easily in his palm, chucking it over his shoulder behind the couch.

Waylon shakes his head, "That's impossible."

"You know," Miles begins, "I drink. I drink a _lot_. Everyday. I've drunken _everyday_ since I was fifteen. I know what being drunk is."

 _He's destroying himself._ But, Waylon can't ignore the absence of slurring words, or how coherent Miles' actions are. _Super strength, invulnerability, and now super....soberness?_

"It...it could be Billy," Waylon offers helpfully, "Maybe he's clocking your metabolism into overload?"

Miles turns his head, meeting Waylon's eyes. He looks....

 _God, he looks pathetic._ It was an alien look. It didn't belong on Miles _._

".....Are you _upset_ you aren't drunk?"

That makes Miles laugh. He leans back, rubbing his face, "Maybe, maybe....shit, I'm sorry, " Before Waylon can tell him he has nothing to be sorry for, he cuts back in quickly, as if picking up a misplaced thought, "Can I ask you something, Park?"

 _You can tell me anything, Miles, "_ Go ahead."

"Your sister lives in San Francisco?"

"Yeah," The mention of his sister makes his chest tighten.

"What's her name? I forgot to ask her name."

"Winona."

Miles grins, "Winona and Waylon?"

"Our parents liked the W theme, what can I say?" Waylon says with a shy smile. His sister and he were teased relentlessly by their friends as children for their matching names.

Miles laughs, devolving into a sigh, "Do you wanna see her when we pass through California?"

Waylon's words stumble over themselves, "I - I would _love_ to," Waylon finally forces out, "If...if that's alright, I wouldn't want to - "

His train of thought derails when he realizes Miles' dead stare is locked on him, a soft smile poking through a dark beard.

"I don't think I've ever seen you so excited about something, Park," Miles shrugs, "Except for....um."

 _Right. The morning after we posted everything. Right._ Waylon scratches at his arms, "I'm sorry, by the way. About...what happened. I didn't know what I was thinking," _I wasn't thinking. I acted on instinct, and I wasn't thinking._

"I didn't mind. It was kinda cute, actually, seeing you all...." Miles waves a hand with a big grin, not mocking, but unreadable, "Full of life. Real cute."

_Kinda cute. Cute. Me. I'm cute? Miles thinks I'm cute._

"Are you sure you aren't drunk?" Waylon says. He slaps his hands over his mouth, powerless as the words escape him.

Instead of smacking him, Miles laughs, "Oh, I wish. But nope. I'm still sober, and you're still cute....hm, maybe 'cute' is the wrong word. More like handsome."

The world stops around Waylon. He can't stop staring at the creases at Miles' eyes. _Hell. Merry Hell._

"...That doesn't make you uncomfortable, does it?" Miles asks him, grin slightly dropping, "Because - "

"No," Waylon interrupts, his hands resting on the collarbone, "It doesn't," _It should. It should but it doesn't._

The way Miles eyes him makes Waylon feel like he was made of glass. Transparent, and Miles was viewing everything inside of him, every thought he had on display.

"It wasn't even a good kiss," Waylon mutters before he can catch himself.

Miles' eyebrows shoot up into his hairline, "What did you say?"

 _Shit_. Waylon starts to stand, "I think I'll go to bed - "

A hand darts out to grab his wrist. Miles' hands are warm, "No - what did you say?"

Miles' hand starts to burn, just slightly, "Nothing," Waylon's adrenaline spikes. _Nothing, nothing, nothing. I said nothing. Just like me. I'm nothing._

"Waylon, _please_."

The subtle quietness in Miles' voice makes Waylon sit back down. The way Miles said his name, uncharacteristically choked, _hurts. He needs me. He needs me to stay._

"What did you say?" Miles asks him again, slow, careful.

One shaky breath, "I said ' _It wasn't even a good kiss_. ' " Waylon says it loud and clear, his ears ringing.

Miles lets go of Waylon's wrist, pink tongue darting out to wet his lips. Dead eyes burn with intensity, anxiety.

The room is sucked of all air. All life, every breath, stolen, taken. The room turns cold, Waylon's skin goosebumping. Blood running hot, Waylon's hands shake with...with anticipation. _Guilt._

"Waylon?"

Miles' voice warps. There's a static under his words. A strange light appears, beams folding over Miles' face. Waylon blinks. Miles' eyes shine with wanton lust and desire, pinpricks of white lit in his pupils.

_I'm sorry. I have to do this. I'm sorry. I owe him this. I owe him for everything that's happened._

 

 

 

-

 

 

  
Miles has no time to brace himself. One moment, Miles is trying to understand what Waylon is really thinking. The next, Waylon already has his face cupped, crashing his lips with Miles'. It's painful, teeth clinking together like two glasses, bad decisions spilling out. Miles doesn't move, muscles and joints locked.

_You don't need to be drunk to make bad decisions - I know that lesson all too well._

As their beards catch and brush together, Miles' finds that he can't ease into the contact. Waylon is eager, much more eager than Miles anticipated, hands still on the sides of his face. Waylon isn't making any noise. There was something....something _wrong_ in Waylon's actions. The press of his lips, harsh and rough. _Not Waylon_. The grip of his fingers, holding on too tight. _Not Waylon._ The way he climbs into Miles' lap, pushing him down onto the couch. _Definitely not Waylon_. He's void of energy.

Miles barely reciprocates, his mind racing. _What is he doing? What am I doing?_ Miles cautiously traces up Waylon's arms, feeling the man's body shake. _Fuck_.

"Hey - " Using as little amount of force as he can muster, Miles pushes up, grabbing Waylon's wrists and breaking their kiss. Waylon is so light, Miles has no trouble sitting him back onto the couch. Waylon stares at him like he's grown a second head.

"Are you OK?" Miles asks him, holding Waylon's hands between his own.

"I'm _fine_ ," Waylon insists, trying to go back in for another kiss. Miles leans his head back.

"No, you're not. Look at you, you're shaking," he lets go of Waylon's hands.

Waylon raises his hands. The tremors are clear. He clasps them on his thighs, "What does that have to do with anything?" Waylon's voice is strained with despair, "Please, just let me to this."

Miles shakes his head, "No."

"Can't you just - " Waylon wrings his hands in frustration, "Please, Miles, I don't have anything else to give you."

Miles furrows his brows, leaning closer, "What do you mean?"

"It's just..." Waylon exhales, heavy, defeated, "It's all I have."

 _Fuck, is he still guilty over that email? Hasn't he fucking moved on from that?_ "Do you still think you owe me for all this shit, Park?"

Waylon doesn't answer him. Miles watches a tear roll down his cheek as he nods his head.

"You don't owe me anything, Park. Not now, not ever, and you _especially_ don't owe me for what happened on that fucking mountain. Do you understand?"

Waylon's lips purse, eyes pointed down.

Miles clutches Waylon's clenched hands, "Say it," Miles asks of him, firm.

It takes a few seconds, but Waylon nods, eyes closed, "I understand."

Miles doesn't say anything else as he walks Waylon back to his bedroom. The only thing heard was their shallow, shared breathing. Miles sits Waylon down on the bed, with an extra, lingering touch on the shoulder. Closing the door, Miles collapses onto his knees on the other side.

That embrace, if Miles hadn't realized that Waylon was initiating under some misplaced guilt, would have stole away every last moral he had. _Marriage be fucking damned_. Miles rubs at his face, feeling the residual ghosting of Waylon's body on his own. Miles bends forwards, forehead touching the carpet.

_What the fuck did they do to him in there?_

 

 

  
-

 

 

  
It's close to twelve in the afternoon when Miles wakes up. His back aches from his night on the couch. He stretches, then goes to make coffee. While he does, Billy sits in the living room, watching the news. While the two men slept, Billy had been pacing outside, watching the building's perimeter and the streets around. He didn't report any suspicious activity, so Miles turned the television on and let him flip through the channels.

Waylon doesn't say a word as he walks into the kitchen. He's fully dressed in jeans and a dark t - shirt, boots on and crutch on his arm. Miles places a hot cup of coffee in front of him as he sits down. The dark circles under his eyes make Waylon look much more gaunt than usual, his hair sticking out at odd angles.

Miles takes out an empty bowl from the cabinet, and a box of cereal, and what little milk he had in the fridge, "Did you sleep alright, Park?"

"No," Waylon replies, gaze fixed on his coffee, "Had a nightmare."

Pouring the cereal and sliding it in front of Waylon, Miles takes the seat across, "Remember anything from it?"

"Yeah."

The two enjoy their breakfast in silence. Miles tries to think of a way to bring up last night, but decided not to. _Who knows what he's thinking right now. He could be one question away from coming apart at the seams_. When Waylon is done, Miles takes both their empty cups and Waylon's bowl and places them into the sink _(What do I need to wash it for, anyway. We're leaving, and I'm never coming back.)_

"Where are you going?" Waylon asks as Miles starts to leave the kitchen, fingers laced together, staring at the table.

"Just wanted to pack some extra clothes, see if there's anything else we might need. Wanna join me?"

Waylon sits on the bed as Miles rifles through his closet. He obviously could pack away his regular clothes, but Miles wanted to know what three years built up in his things. He keeps an eye on Waylon through his peripherals. Waylon keeps his head down, watching Miles just the same.

Miles finds boxes of old articles, printed out and organized, from his old jobs before Murkoff got him fired. His old editors told him it was his attitude, but who wouldn't notice an army of men in crisp black suits storming through their office. He throws the box over his shoulder.

"What are those?"

"Old garbage."

Miles finds some old dress clothes. _Don't need those_. Old pair of sneakers he never got the chance to throw out. _Garbage_. An old polaroid camera. _Hm. Might need that_. It's an older model from - _When did I get this, 2006? -_ and there's still a reel of film inside. Miles, for the life of him, can't remember what could be on the camera, but decides its best to pocket it for now and find out later. Miles pushes away box after box of old clothes and other knick - knacks, until -

_Hold on. Are these my - ? I thought these got lost in the move!_

"Hell yes," Miles says with a grin, bringing out his box of cassettes. He stands up, holding the box up.

Waylon's brows crease, "What are those?"

"My old cassettes. I thought I lost these," he picks up one plastic case, tossing it to Waylon. Waylon catches it.

"..... _RIP Kurt Cobain_ ," He reads.

Miles snorts, "Yeah....yeah, I always liked to personalize them. That's my _MTV Unplugged Live In New York_ cassette."

"Do you have a player?"

"No. That broke some years ago, and I tossed it. I just...I couldn't bring myself to get rid of them," he sits down next to Waylon, taking out case after case.

"How many do you have?"

"I don't know....maybe twenty or so. Some got broken or damaged, so I just threw those out."

Waylon cranes his neck to look into the box, "........looks like twenty six."

"Really?" Miles looks down into the box, "How can you tell?"

"It's just counting. I've...I've always been good. With numbers," he grips the Nirvana cassette still in his hand, then places it back in the box.

_Technical engineer. Right. You need a lot of mathematical prowess to get a job like that._

"Well, Mr. Mathematician," Miles picks up another well - loved plastic case, this one with _Miss You_ on it. He carelessly tosses it back into the box, "How much do you think all this is worth?"

Waylon looks off into space, his back straight, "I don't know the values of cassette tapes. It can depend on rarity, condition....these aren't the original cases, that drops it down. I don't know."

"Ah, I'll try and clean the cases. I'll try and re - label them, and see if we can thrift them."

"If we're heading to San Francisco, my sister said there's like this, what do you call it... _hipster_? There's this hipster place near where she lives. Some high - end thrift store."

"That's a good idea, Park. San Francisco is littered with people trying to make cheap crap expensive luxuries."

Miles places the box on the bed, quickly gathering what clothes he's picked out and shoving them into his duffle.

"You ever been there?" Waylon asks.

"To San Francisco? Yeah, plenty of times. Your sister lives there, and you've never gone?"

Waylon shakes his head, "The travel time was so long, the boys wouldn't be able to make the trip without killing each other. We barely made it to Colorado."

Miles smirks, organizing his clothes, "Do you guys take a lot of trips together?"

"Not when they were younger. Now though, they're getting antsy. They told me they want to go to the beach one day," For the first time this morning, Waylon's eyes light up, "Ricky loves to swim. We used to take him to this gym near our old apartment just to use the pool. We used to joke that he was _more_ mad that we were moving away from the pool than we were from his friends."

Miles leans against his dresser as he listens to Waylon's stories about his family with an earnest ear. Ben is a baseball prodigy, who makes more friends than he knows what to do with. Ricky is a little more reserved, but loves the outdoors.

"Sounds like you raised a couple of real good kids. I'm glad they have a father who loves them," Miles states, arms crossed. He tries not to notice the sad glint in Waylon's eye.

"So," Waylon starts, hands in his lap, "You obviously don't have any kids....wait, do you?"

"Oh, believe me, I don't have any."

"....Right, and you said you don't have any siblings. What about your parents?"

 _Dead and dead to me_ , "I don't talk to them. What about yours?"

"We talked basically every day back in Arizona. My dad is a dentist, and my mom works the front desk of their office."

"Probably flipping out about you being missing, right?"

Waylon looks down at his hands, "Probably."

"Have you called them yet?"

"No. It's better if I don't. If we're being tracked, they probably have taps on their phones."

"But you want to, right?"

"More than anything."

Miles sighs through his nose, "Your family loves you, you know that? They love you, even if you can't call them."

Waylon doesn't pick his head up.

Miles continues, "They love you no matter what happened to you, or what will. They'll love you for the rest of your life."

A pound at the door stops Miles from saying anything else.

 

 

  
-

 

 

  
Waylon darts out of the room as fast as he can. He doesn't want to think about what he did back there in the asylum. He doesn't want to think about what he almost did last night. _Of course Miles didn't want it, of course. Your brain is so fucked up, reality is a fine line and you keep crossing over the boundary._

_I dance on the grave of my previous life, stepping on the shattered dreams and vows I made with my family. Now, I dance with death, and his name is Miles Upshur. It's only a matter of time before he takes what he wants from me, and kills me when I outlive my usefulness._

Waylon opens the door. Chrissy is on the other side, makeup now wiped off, already short hair pulled back into a small ponytail. Her eyes are wide, mouth pursed, hands clenched.

"Hey, Miles around?"

"Yeah. In his bedroom."

Chrissy fidgets in her place, ".....Is he _dressed_?"

"Yes? Why - "

Waylon barely gets his sentence out before Chrissy rushes in, racing for Miles' bedroom.

" _Miles! Get up_! You need to look at this thing they posted on the corner!" Waylon isn't too far behind her as she throws open his bedroom door.

"What? What is it?" Miles jumps from his spot on the dresser.

Chrissy takes a deep breath, "So, I go to the cornerstore, right? Because I forgot to pick up milk yesterday, and I just remembered, and so I go there - " Chrissy unfolds her hands, "There was a guy hanging outside, dressed in all black, so I thought he was dealing and I tried to go inside but he stopped me and his breath _reeked_ and - "

Miles holds Chrissy's shoulders, "Relax, Chrissy, relax!"

Chrissy takes another deep breath, continuing, "So he starts asking me questions about the area, right? And he breaks out a pack of cigarettes and I'm like OK, he has cigarettes! Great. I start smokin' with him, and he asks me if I watched the news lately, and I say ' _a little_ ,' and he asks if I've seen the Murkoff Incident tapes - "

Waylon's heart stops. _Shit. Shit!_ His grip tightens on the doorway of Miles' room.

" - So I say ' _never did,_ ' but he doesn't believe me, y'know? He says, ' _Miss, I know Miles Upshur lived around here. Just around the corner, in fact. He's a wanted criminal. You haven't seen him around, have you?' "_

"What did you tell him?" Miles' question is tight.

"I didn't tell him nothin'! I thanked him for the cigarette, went to grab milk, and speed - walked back home!"

Miles lets go of Chrissy, pacing his room, rubbing his face and chin.

"You said," Waylon shudders, "Billy already checked around - "

"He _did_ check. He checked the fucking four blocks around us - "

"Did he check inside any of the buildings? Windows?"

Miles shakes his head, "Just the streets and parking lots."

"Who's Billy?" Chrissy asks, "Another guy here?"

Miles grabs his duffle bag and his box of cassettes, "We have to leave."

"Wait, who's Billy?"

Waylon meets Miles' eye. Miles shakes his head.

In less than three minutes, Waylon and Miles have packed away everything they needed. Waylon watches Chrissy follow Miles around the apartment. Her eyes are slightly wet.

_How many people is Miles leaving behind? Why does he act like going on the run is a blessing for them?_

"Can you go down to the van, Waylon? I'll be right down," Miles slips him the keys to the van.

Waylon steps to Chrissy, hand extended, "It was nice to meet you, Chrissy."

She reluctantly takes his hand in a weak shake, "Likewise."

Waylon shoulders both duffle bags, box of cassettes under his arm, carefully climbing down the three flights of stairs to the outside. The afternoon is bright and calm, people passing by on the street. Waylon pulls his denim cap down over his eyes as he crosses the lot to the their van, throwing his items in the open back and climbing into the passenger seat.

Billy's radio flicks on, "You seem a little upset, Waylon."

"I - I mean, there's a guy on the street asking about Miles. I didn't like how he specifically called to Miles' neighbor about him. It's bad news."

"You were upset much before Chrissy came by."

Billy isn't wrong, and Waylon had tried that whole morning not to remember what he tried to do to Miles. _You're disgusting. Stupid whore. Queer. Look how ready you were to give it up._

"Do you want to talk about it? Your nightmare?"

Waylon scoffs, arms crossing, "No, no, I'd rather not."

It wasn't a nightmare, in fact. Not what a normal person would consider a nightmare, anyway. It was a dream, where Waylon was held in Miles' arms, his hands all over him, touching him with warm caresses. Waylon woke up that morning rock hard.

Unconsciously, Waylon touches his arms where he's scratched long red lines into his skin.

Billy's radio switches channels, the weather report coming through. Waylon sighs through his nose, looking around. There's a few other cars in the parking lot, but it was mostly empty, everyone at work. Waylon peers into the rearview mirror.

A black van with a silver emblem on the side pulls into the parking lot, parking in the empty road haphazardly. Four men dressed in black kevlar toting large black assault rifles pour out of the back. They make hand motions Waylon doesn't understand, taking up positions on the back door Waylon had come through.

 _Shit_.

"Miles is still inside - "

"Already on it."

The van shakes, and suddenly every car alarm in the parking lot goes off. Waylon watches through the mirror as the men aim their guns at the cars, unleashing a hail of bullets.

Waylon yells, ducking down into the foot of his seat, arms covering his head. He hears glass shatter, the van subtly jerking from the force.

Heart thundering in his chest, Waylon stays crouched on the floor of his seat.

_We're all gonna fucking die._

 

 

-

 

 

Miles says his last goodbyes to Chrissy.

"I'm not coming back. You can take whatever you want from my apartment. You still have that emergency key I gave you?"

Chrissy nods, "Yeah, still on my key ring."

Before Miles can even take a step towards her, Chrissy has her arms around his chest in a tight hug.

"Don't die out there. I'll be mad."

Miles smirks, hugging her back, "You don't have to worry about me."

Chrissy lets go, going back into her apartment. When she opens her door, Brutus unleashes a chorus of loud, angry barks. Chrissy sadly looks at him as she shuts the door, Brutus' barks muffled.

Miles wishes he had at least another day to spend with her. He can still remember her being seventeen and working while her shitty ex laid around all day. He watched over her all these years like an older brother, almost. A shitty, shitty older brother. It hurt to leave her behind.

Billy appears at the end of the hallway.

"Blackjaw showed up outside."

Miles snaps his head around, "Where's Waylon?"

"In the van. They're at the back door."

Miles holds his arms out, beckoning Billy to him, "Come on, let's get those fuckers."

Billy doesn't move. His hands are clenched at his sides.

"What the fuck are you doing? Let's go," Miles waves him over.

"I don't want to kill them Upshur."

Rage flares, "Hope, we don't have time for you to have a fucking moral dilemma. Christ, we need to either kill them, or they'll kill us."

"They won't kill us. I can make sure of that," Billy responds quickly.

"Then they'll kill Waylon. He's dead unless you stop being a fucking righteous idiot," The hallway shakes from Miles' yelling.

Billy still doesn't move.

 _Fuck_.

Miles runs back into his apartment. He tugs open the window next to his television. His view faced the alley between the building and the next. Looking down, it's at least a one - hundred foot drop.

"Fuck me," Miles grunts.

Miles stands straight, taking a deep, nervous breath. _I'll be fine. I don't know the limits of Billy's powers, but if I can survive a hail of bullets, I can survive a fall. Waylon is out there, alone, he needs us._

_"Don't let Waylon die."_

_"Take good care of my husband, Miles."_

Miles vaults the window.

Everything goes black as he crosses the window threshold.

 

  
-

 

  
Miles wakes up in the drivers seat of the van. Waylon screams. Miles fumbles in the seat, feeling around.

" _Holy fuck_!" Miles looks down, seeing Waylon's thin form huddled onto the form of the van, "Jesus, are you OK?"

" _Do I look OK?_!" Waylon screeches, holding out the van keys. Miles quickly snatches them from his hand, "How did you get in here?"

"I don't know!"

"What do you mean you _don't know_?! You appeared out of thin fucking air and you don't fucking _know_!?"

"Christ, I don't know, Park!"

Waylon climbs back into the passenger seat. He's shaking and pale, but is otherwise fine.

For a second, Miles stares down at the the steering wheel. _I don't remember what happened after I jumped....did I hit the ground? Did Billy carry me? How did I get into the van?_

Miles looks behind. He sees one Blackjaw van, and just the flitter of men in black as they run inside the apartment building _. No time to think about that now_. Starting the van up, Miles peels out of the parking lot, nearly scraping cars parked on the street.

Miles grips the steering wheel tightly, "Jesus _Christ_ , that was close - "

"They weren't alone," Billy shouts.

Miles glances back, seeing three more black vans tailing them.

Waylon holds his head in his hands, " _Fuck_!"

Flexing his hands, Miles stares straight, "Hold on, Park."

"What do you mean _hold on?_ What the fuck are you gonna do?!"

"Do you trust me?"

Waylon pauses.

"Christ, Park, do you trust me?"

"Yes! Yes, I trust you!"

Miles stomps on the gas. The van lurches forward. Miles jerks the wheel left, avoiding a collision with a Jeep. Out of the corner of his eye, Miles sees Waylon buckle his seatbelt, holding the part across his chest tight.

Miles runs a red light, narrowly avoiding another car. He hears the sound of metal crunching. In the rearview mirror, two cars were pushed aside from the intersection by Blackjaw vans, barrelling through traffic.

" _Jesus - fucking - Christ_ , they're gonna kill someone!" Waylon yells, holding onto the handle of the door.

 _I think they already have_ , Miles thinks to himself when he sees a van in the back t - bone a silver Mercury, and keep going. Heart thrumming, Miles stomps harder. At a red light, he jerks to avoid a few pedestrians walking through the crosswalk.

"Fucking Christ, be careful!" Waylon yells, thrown into the passenger door as Miles bypasses a minivan in front. He twists around, looking into the back, "Fuck, they're gaining, _fuck_!"

Ducking and dodging through the city, Miles peeks into the mirrors, seeing vehicles being crumpled by Blackjaw. Their vans take up both side of the street, plowing through the city, hot on their bumper.

"Billy, get them off our tails!" Miles yells into the air, avoiding another collision at an intersection. Miles lived downtown, and so they were halfway through the city already. _Just a little bit more. If Billy can distract them, we can hightail it into the desert._

"I don't know what to do!" Billy yells back in Miles' head.

"Jesus Christ, do you need a fucking _diagram_? Go fuck their vans up, kill the drivers, I don't care! Do _something_!"

"I don't want to hurt anyone!"

"It's them or it's us, Billy! It's them, or it's us!"

Billy goes quiet. Miles looks back, seeing the vans gain speed. The road ahead of them is clear. _Unless Billy does something soon, we won't be able to outrun them._

"We're fucking _dead_ ," Waylon whimpers.

Miles winces as his chest starts to burn. He looks back into the mirrors.

The first van in the front, leading the pack, jerks to the left. Miles watches it swerve back and forth in the road. With a loud groan of metal, the van swerves so it's sideways in the road, turning onto its back. It flips a few times, metal and debris flying. One Blackjaw van collides with the rolling one, sputtering smoke. The other Blackjaw van gains, then falls back, swerving right into a divider.

Miles accelerates.

 

 

-

 

 

Miles pulls off of highway 80, driving into the desert. He runs down small cacti, ripping dry grass from their places. As soon as the road is out of view, he parks the van, turning the engine off.

Waylon dips out of the van. From his seat, Miles can hear the sound of dry heaving, and crying. Miles pulls open the driver's side door, sliding out. His knees hit the hot desert dirt. He and Waylon had been driving for three hours. Miles didn't know if they were in California. He hadn't been paying attention.

He can't stop the boiling wrath inside of him. It burns just as bright as the mark on his chest.

Coolness touches his left arm, "Upshur?"

"Don't touch me," Miles snaps, "Do you understand what happened back there?"

Billy pulls his hands back, kneeling on the ground next to him, "I'm sorry," Billy's hollow eyes brim with white liquid.

Miles keeps every drop of vitriol in his vocabulary locked in his brain, "Get the fuck away from me."

Billy turns to smoke.

Miles collapses onto his side, rolling onto his back. A friendly blue sky and a bright burning sun mock him from above.


	32. Unload

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for: EMETOPHOBIA, SELF HARM, LONG PARAGRAPHS WITH LITTLE BREAKS ; in the future of this chapter, there's a wall of numbers that take up the screen, so if that bothers you its more towards the end of the chapter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh boy my writing style just turns this shit into an emotional rollercoaster of nonsense! but ok i fucking GUESS.....AAHHHHH
> 
> my writing style is goofy as hell but i have fun so eeeeeeee
> 
> also like i wish i was chillin in a huge van in the desert and not here with like a job and shit. wish i was a cowboy to be perfectly honest
> 
> OK enjoy idk when the next chapter will be up hopefully soon :)

Waylon swishes the gulp of water in his mouth, spitting out the remains of vomit and saliva. He shudders, recapping the water jug. He's still sweating, mouth sour. Disoriented, Waylon sits down in the dirt, his back against the side of the van. He wipes the sweat from his forehead, digging his palms into his eyes. _We almost fucking died. That was way too fucking close._ Waylon's brain swirls with paranoia, pulling at his chest and stomach, churning. _How much longer until our luck runs out? What if something happens, and Billy isn't there to protect us?_

Waylon had never watched a car crash before. He, like most people, had seen the aftermath of crashes, but never the event itself. It made Waylon sick. He'll never forget the sound of metal crumpling. _How many people died today? How many did Blackjaw kill? How many did we kill when we were running for our fucking lives?_

Quickly, Waylon lets out a grunt of frustration _. Car crashes, assassination attempts....I guess I'll just have to fucking learn to live with it._

Waylon unclips the radio from his waistband, holding it up to his mouth like a walkie - talkie, "Billy? Are you there?"

There's no answer.

Waylon tries for a few minutes to channel Billy, but the radio stays off. He clips the radio back to his belt, taking out his wallet.

He takes out the photo of his family. Waylon can still remember that day. He and Lisa had taken the boys to a fair that was set up outside of town. They had carnival games, a ferris wheel, some other rides Waylon had forgotten the name of. Ben insisted on playing every game there. He can still hear his cheering yells as he won a huge stuffed snake from a dart - throwing booth. Later that night, after the boys had gone to bed, he and Lisa made love, and laid in bed afterwards, laughing about the fair.

Waylon swallows bile in his throat down. _I'll be back. I promise._

Wind blows dust past his face as Waylon tucks the photograph back into his wallet. Waylon had never ventured out of Arizona before, not before he moved to Colorado. The dirt and rock formations are a little more yellow, the grass and cacti a little lighter in green. Land stretched endlessly onto the horizon, cutting off into a blue sky, the barest wisps of clouds hanging in the atmosphere. Waylon peeks into the open passenger door. It's 4:45 in the afternoon. Waylon was positive he blacked out at some point during the ride. _Are we still in Nevada?_

Standing, Waylon winces as he grabs his crutch, leg throbbing from stress. He loops around the van. There's the impact points of bullets in the body of the van, windows webbed with cracks. _We might have to get rid of this soon. It'll draw attention_. Waylon digs his nails into a crack in the window, pulling out a twisted body of a bullet. Caught in the glass, one side is completely flat, the other a strange, blooming flower. Waylon pockets it. He quickly runs his hands over the dents in the van - 22 - finding four more melted bodies, which he pockets as well.

Miles is off in the far distance, sitting on a flat rock formation, flanked by tall grass. From where Waylon is, he can see Miles flail his hands in extravagant gestures, only the ghosts of yelling on the wind.

Deciding not to bother Miles, Waylon opens the back doors of the van, sitting on the edge of the open back.

He stares out into the distance. _It's beautiful here. Ricky would have loved to be here._ _He always liked nature_. He sits there, unmoving, as the sky turns from blue to purple, the white dot of a sun setting, turning gold and orange. The faintest white stars peek out against the pained sky. Waylon watches a coyote, greyish - gold fur mangy and body thin, climb a far rock. It doesn't approach, shiny brown eyes staring at Waylon, before it jumps from it's perch, running out of sight.

Miles has stopped. He hasn't moved from his spot. Waylon grabs the unopened water jug (which Waylon had taken the time to write MILES in big blocky letters on) and the bag of pretzels they had picked up some days ago, limping over. Miles has his head in his hands. Waylon thinks him asleep, until he speaks.

" _What_?" Miles snaps, voice slightly raw.

Waylon drops the jug and the bag next to Miles, on the rock, "You've been out here for hours."

"So?" Miles sits up, hands clenched between his legs. In one of Miles' clenched hands, he holds the photograph Waylon picked up from his lock box.

I _wonder where that gun is._

_Don't think like that. He wouldn't do something like that....would he?_

Quickly scanning Miles, Waylon doesn't see a pistol.

"What the fuck are you staring at?" Miles barks.

Waylon jumps a step back. _Shit_.

Miles waves a hand, looking away, "Just....fuck, just leave me alone."

Waylon sits down on the rock, the jug and pretzels leaving a foot of space between them. Miles sighs in frustration, but doesn't say anything otherwise.

They both sit in silence, nothing but the rolling wasteland wind. Waylon doesn't bother trying to fill the time, focusing on the landscape before him, giving Miles a nervous glance every so - often. He counts the dried patches of grass - 54 - and the rock formations - 15 - and the cacti - 14. The sky turns dark, the purple edging into dark blue, white dustings of stars splattered above faint puffs of dark clouds. The air took on a harsh chill, and Waylon bundled his canvas coat tighter with a shiver.

"You can go to the van if you're cold, Park," Miles says, voice laced with exhaustion. He's staring down, forearms leaned against his knees.

"Not if you're gonna stay out here," Waylon responds with a chatter of his teeth.

Miles sighs, "You're a stubborn asshole," he stands, "A real pain in my ass," He scoops up the jug and pretzels, walking to the van, "A fucking jerkoff."

Waylon pushes himself up from the rock, following. He watches Miles throw the items into the passenger side door, grimacing as he steps around Waylon's vomit puddle.

"What the fuck are you looking at? Get in the back."

Waylon shrinks into the van. He sits on one of the wall - mounted seats. The back of the van is spacious, easily fitting up to six or more armored mercenaries (including a few if they sat on the floor.) It's slightly warmer in the van, but not by much. The lockers between each seat are empty. The van is lit by the moonlight reflected off the desert floor, casting a blue shadow. Miles jumps into the back, shutting the doors behind him, locking them.

"You ever been camping, Park?" Miles asks.

"On our way to Colorado we slept in the car," Waylon responds.

"Great. This is exactly like that."

Waylon takes it as Miles trying to be humorous, but the aggressive tone in his voice keeps Waylon's lips a tight line. He watches Miles move their duffles closer to the front seats, making two long, makeshift pillows.

Miles shrugs his sneakers and jacket off. Waylon hesitates, but follows suit, the energy of the day slowly crashing down on him. As soon as Waylon shrugs off his coat, he shivers. He keeps his long sleeve shirt on, but pulls down his pants to pull off his brace. He places Billy's radio on the floor between the two front seats.

He can feel Miles' burning stare as he works his brace off. He rolls his fingers over the tender muscle. He can still feel the ghostly pain of the bone shattering when he jumped from that window.

"You alright?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine."

Looking up, Miles is in a pair of loose boxers and a t - shirt.

"Aren't you cold?" Waylon asks as he pulls his pants back up.

"No. I don't really feel anything, to be honest."

Creasing his eyebrows, Waylon sinks to the floor. _Weird, weird, weird._

"Hey," Miles starts, "I'm sorry for what happened last night."

 _It's not your fault, don't say that,_ "I should be the one who's sorry. I thought - "

"You still think you could have done anything different in there?" Miles says with a huff and a shake of his head.

"Of course I do," The regret, the guilt, the frustration, it all comes bubbling up into his throat, like bile, "I should have just kept my head down. Some of the men in there, the ones who weren't pure fucking evil, were like me. Family men, with wives and lives and children, and they're fucking dead because I wasn't there to make sure all the systems were running smoothly."

He can't hold back the tears, "Billy reached something called a 'lateral ascension,' and if I was there to recalibrate everything, they'd all still be alive. I'd finish my contract, and we'd _all_ fucking leave. I shouldn't have emailed you. You wouldn't have fucking come and had your life turned the fuck upside down!"

"P - "

Waylon cuts him off, "My family fucking hates me, I left them behind. I wasn't good enough for my fucking wife, she's off fucking a guy we've known for years. And what happened back in that asylum? What they did to me in there? I'm so...I'm so fucking _different_ now. I'm scared all the fucking time, and - and I'm seeing things. I don't feel right in my own fucking skin! And I just...it's not _there_ anymore. The safety. The trust for people. It's just _gone_ , like a fucking - " he makes a raspberry noise, "Like a fucking fart in the wind! I've fucking lost _everything_!"

Waylon doesn't care that he's crying, that Miles is staring at him. He's tired. Tired of _everything. I barely have the motivation to fucking wake up in the morning, I can't stand staring at myself in the mirror, it hurts, everything fucking hurts IwishIwasjustfuckingdead -_

"Breathe, Park, _breathe_!"

Waylon attempts to suck in a breath, but nothing comes through. The van seems smaller, Miles much closer, the air completely sucked out of the space. The back of the van is sweltering. Sweat soaks through Waylon's shirt, and he pulls at the fabric. _Off, off, off, I can't breath, I can't -_

Miles grabs him by the front of his shirt, throwing the van doors open.

 

 

  
-

 

 

Miles holds Waylon by the hem of his pants and the back of his shirt as he gulps in the cold desert air. Waylon grabs at the dirt under him, gasping. Miles carefully lowers Waylon onto the ground, flipping him on his back.

"Breathe, breathe, it's alright, you're gonna be alright."

Waylon chokes, but nods, chest heaving, eyes screwed closed.

He didn't expect Waylon to vent that brutally. Miles had no idea the amount of guilt Waylon thought he rightfully deserved to carry on his shoulders. _Stupid of me to think he was only guilty over me. Lots of people died in that asylum. How many would have lived if he hadn't been locked up?_

_Not that anyone really deserved to live. What kind of evil can sit back and watch people suffer, and do nothing about it?_

And there it was again. The river of anger that flowed harshly under his skin, beating against the meaty shell of Miles' body, always threatening to tear him apart. Miles takes a few deep breath, trying to keep his focus on Waylon.

Miles repeats his words of soft encouragement, over and over again, until Waylon stops shaking, until his breathing returns to a normal, shallow beat. It takes a long, long twenty minutes, but Waylon finally calms down. His face is drenched in sweat when Waylon finally opens his eyes.

"You good?" Miles asks.

Waylon swallows, "I'm...yeah. Yes. I'm sorry."

Miles pulls him back into the van, shutting the doors, checking that they're locked, "Stop saying you're sorry. None of this could've been avoided, Park. The only thing that would've changed is that you'd just be another defiled corpse in there. You think Murkoff could've ever contained the Walrider? It was just a matter of time before something went wrong. Things always go fucking wrong, that's just the nature of life. You couldn't have done anything differently."

Waylon pulls his shirt over his head, wiping the sweat and tears off his face with the garment. He throws the shirt away. Miles holds his breath.

In the light of the moon, Waylon's torso is covered in scars. They're faded (Miles chalks that up to when Billy healed his leg,) but numerous, from his stomach to his shoulders, a particularly large and ghastly one in the middle of his chest. _The telltale sign of fucking torture_. There's a few fresh, pink lines along his forearms.

Waylon sniffs as he grabs a fresh t - shirt, "Fuck, it's freezing," he pulls the shirt over his head.

"Desert gets cold at night," Miles says, tearing his eyes away from Waylon's arms. He reaches into the front seat, grabbing a water jug. He doesn't bother looking at Billy, who's been sitting in the front seat for what Miles can only guess as the whole day, at least since Miles yelled at him.

Miles still doesn't understand why Billy hesitated to take care of the Blackjaw agents. He's dwelled on it all day, and still hasn't come to a logical conclusion why. Everyone in his apartment building, including the people walking around on the street and sidewalks, were in danger. These were monsters, masked killers. They didn't deserve mercy. They sure as Hell wouldn't show any to Waylon and him.

Miles shakes the thought from his head.  _Just forget it. You'll talk about it later_. He hands Waylon the water jug. Waylon takes a few small sips.

"I'm sorry," Waylon says, breaking the silence, "I didn't mean to unload everything on you."

Miles shrugs, "S'fine. It's a lot on a person. You're just trying to find ways to cope."

Waylon crosses his arms, "How do you cope? With all this."

Miles' first instinct is to say I don't want to talk about it. But, given Waylon's total breakdown, it just doesn't seem fair to leave Waylon in the dust like that. _Maybe I've been holding onto everything for too long, anyway._

The prospect of sharing his personal feelings _terrified_ Miles. But looking at Waylon, Miles pushes his doubt to the side _. Waylon isn't like that. Waylon wouldn't judge you for anything._

Running a hand through his hair, Miles heaves a sigh, "Well, I used to cope with my problems with alcohol and empty sex, but that shits out of the picture. Can't get drunk anymore....my dick still works, but what guy wants to fuck one of the most wanted men in America, right? I could start smoking again, but am I really prepared to waste all our fucking money on shit like that?"

Miles draws his legs up, leaning his elbows on his knees, "So that leaves just getting angry. Yelling. I was always a little angry, life's frustrations beating me down, but I got... _worse_ at Mount Massive. I'm just so fucking _mad_ , for no reason at all, all the fucking time. It feels like yelling and screaming is the only release I have. I mean, you saw me out there. I was screaming for fucking _hours_."

Hazel eyes give Miles a glance over, "But you felt better after?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I did. It felt fucking _good_ to just....yell into the open sky. Nobodies here for miles around, so what's stopping me?" He looks into the driver's seat, at the back of Billy's head, "I don't think Billy likes it too much though."

Billy doesn't turn around.

"How's Billy doing, anyway? I've been trying to call him all day," Waylon replies, yawning.

"Tired, I think," Miles answers, "I think all that action took a lot out of him."

Waylon shoves his discarded clothes to the side without another word.

Both men agree that it's getting late, and decide to turn in for the night. Miles and Waylon lay down side - by - side, a few inches separating them. Billy's radio flips on, the familiar voice of Susie Sunshine coming through.

"..... _and I only have my prayers and condolences for the people who's lives were lost today in the attack on Carson City._ "

Miles and Waylon share a somber glance. Waylon is the first to break the contact, shifting onto his side, his back facing Miles.

_Fucking animals._

" _For now, just as the night reclaims the day, Sunshine 112.2 is setting below the horizon. I bid you all a heartfelt goodnight, and stay safe out there."_

Susie's voice fades out, replaced by the gentle lull of another song.

Miles is awake for hours after.

 

 

  
-

 

 

  
**Billy is hunched at the top of the hill. His long, greasy hair falls into his face, eyes hidden.**

**" _Fuck, not this shit again_ ," Miles grabs onto the side of the hill, clawing his way up.**

**Unlike the first time he's climbed this ashy, black hill, no shake of the earth throws Miles back down. He finds his footing in jagged rocks that press painfully into his skin, roots twisted in his hands, rigid in his grip. Sweating, muscles burning _(Why the Hell do I ache so fucking much, this is a dream?)_  and covered in soot, Miles pulls himself over the edge of the hill.**

**The top of the hill is thin, thirty feet long, five feet wide. On the far side, a dead and blackened tree of gnarled and burnt wood twists into the dirt, jutting from the side like the decaying antlers of a long - dead deer. Billy is nestled at the base of the tree, body encased by the roots.**

**" _Hope_?" Miles calls, panting.**

**There's no response.**

_**Don't get angry. Don't get angry. Don't get angry.** _

**Miles takes a deep, deep breath, and walks to the tree. Billy doesn't pick his head up.**

**" _We need to talk."_**

**"I don't want to ," Billy whispers, his multi - voice strained.**

**Miles wordlessly throws his hands up, running his hands over his face, bones scraping skin. _Motherfu - is he serious?_**

**" _What do you want to hear_?" Miles says, pushing aside dead roots, creating a small opening at the base of the tree. His shadow casts over Billy's grey form, " _That I'm sorry? Because it's hard for me to be sorry about all this shit. I'm sorry I yelled at you. I'm sorry that people got hurt. But I'm not sorry that we're still alive."_**

**Billy erupts into dust. Suddenly, a cold force knocks Miles' back a clear foot, laying him out on his back. In a black cloud above, Billy's face is exposed, his arms darting out, grasping Miles by his shoulders.**

**"It's _wrong_ , Miles! _I'm_ wrong!" He screams so loudly that Miles instinctively covers his ears, "I'm using you! For terrible, terrible things that no living person should ever have to bear the burden of having done!"**

**Words caught in his throat, Miles doesn't dare interrupt Billy.**

**"I've turned you into a killer! I saved you from the endless abyss, but I couldn't save you from the grip of death!"**

**A single, white tear falls, landing directly on Miles' cheek. It rolls down his face, leaving a clean trail in the soot.**

**The rest of Billy's body falls from the static cloud. He weighs nothing. Miles could barely feel his form press down into his own.**

**" I've defiled your spirit, Miles. You have a dark, dark stain on your soul. You'll never be able to wash it away. I've trapped you in a cycle of violence and hatred," Billy's teeth are grit. He leans forward, forehead resting on the mark on Miles' chest, sobbing. His greasy, light hair hides his face.**

**Sighing, Miles gently grabs Billy's thin shoulders, pushing him up, " _Look at me, Hope," Christ. Everyone's too wrapped up in their own regrets and wrongdoing to sit down and look at the bigger picture. You can't change the past, but you sure as Hell can try to fight for a better future. Billy sure as Hell needs to hear it, or else we'll never be able to fucking move forward._**

**Billy looks more pathetic than Miles had ever seen him, his thin mouth formed into a creased frown, white streaks down his cheeks. He's almost limp in Miles' hands. Miles maneuvers him onto his knees, holding him up.**

**" _I don't blame you for anything, OK? We all have to do shit we never tho_ \- "**

**" Don't \- "**

**" _Stop fucking talking_ ," Miles hisses, " _Stop. Stop and listen to me_."**

**Billy's mouth purses.**

**" _I'm not here for you to feel sorry for yourself_ ," Miles gives Billy a shake, " _We don't have the luxury of feeling sorry, or over - thinking shit. I don't want you to kill people, in my body or out of my body, I don't want you to. But we don't have a choice in this! It's either the people fucking after us die, or we die, or Waylon dies_."**

**Billy tries to look down, but Miles ducks with him, keeping his empty gaze.**

**" _Is that what you want? For Waylon to fucking die_?" Miles spits, temper flaring. The mark on his chest glows, burning.**

**Billy shakes his head with another whimper.**

**" _Or it could be worse, you know it could be much fucking worse. Maybe they won't even kill us, huh? They'll capture us. We'll relive Mount Massive a thousand times over - "_**

**" _Stop_ \- "**

_**"You wanted to be free, right? Freedom always comes with a fucking price, and that price is fucking blood. It's what we have to do."** _

**Billy breaks down, throwing his thin arms around Miles' shoulders, head tucked into his collarbone, " I'm sorry," he breaks through tears, "I'm so _sorry_ , Miles."**

**Miles pats his back, muttering, " _It's OK, it's OK_ ," Because, really, Miles knew all along Billy didn't like using his abilities to hurt people. He didn't want to back at the house, and he didn't want to when the Wernicke led Blackjaw to him. Miles didn't want to be angry with Billy. It's hard to take a life. Even for a ghost,**

**" _We have to do what we have to."_**

 

 

  
-

 

 

  
_**Waylon sits, lethargic, in the chair, the only thing he can see in empty blackness his drooping appearance. His wrists are tied down with weathered leather straps, feet strapped to the legs of the chair as well. His head lolls to the side, eyelids heavy. He blinks slowly at his reflection in the mirror, listening to it speak, the reflection's mouth moving while Waylon's stays still.** _

_**"3.141592653589793238462643383279502884197169399375105820974944592307816406286208998628034825342117067982148086532823066470938446095505822317253594081284811174502841027019385211055596446229489549303819644288109756659334461284756482337867831652712019091456485669234603486104543266482133936072602491412737245870066063155881748815209209628292540917153643678925903600113305305488204665213841469519415116094330572703657595919530921861173819326117931051185480744623799627495673518857527248912279381830119491298336733624406566430860213949463952247371907021798609437027705392171762931767523846748184676694051320005681271452635608277857713427577896091736371787214684409012249534301465495853710507922796892589235420199561121290219608640344181598136297747713099605187072113499999983729780499510597317328160963185950244594553469083026425223082533446850352619311881710100031378387528865875332083814206171776691473035982534904287554687311595628638823537875937519577818577805321712268066130019278766111959092164201989 - "** _

_**The other Waylon's eyes go wide. His mouth opens, letting out a gutteral scream. He thrashes in his chair, convulsing. Crimson drips down the doppelganger's nose, flooding out of his eyes. His eyes roll back, and he falls limp in the chair.** _

_**The mirror shatters.** _

Waylon jerks awake, blinking harshly. Daylight has filled the van, desert wind howling outside. He wipes the sand from his eyes. He's curled up into Miles' left side, his head at the height of Miles' chest, one of Miles' arms around him. Turning his chin up, Waylon is about to pull away, but he stops, staring.

Miles' is peaceful, lacking his usual hardened scowl, the muscles of his face relaxed with sleep. The usual creases of his eyes and mouth are softened with rest. The two haven't had the time to shave, so Miles' beard is dark and full, pale scars creating hairless spots. His mouth is partially open, emitting loud snores. He can't help but imagine those lips pressed against his.

He's tried to hide it. He's tried very, _very_ hard to deny the fact that he does, indeed, think Miles is one of the most handsome men he's ever seen. Waylon finds that every other thought, when they're not delved deep into the memories of the asylum, is about Miles. Miles is kind, and thoughtful, and cares for people, even when he doesn't want to admit it. It's maddening to be in the same room as him, sometimes.

"Miles?" Waylon whispers.

Miles doesn't respond. _Out like a light_. Waylon gently sits up, carefully picking Miles' arm off of his shoulders. He lays Miles' palm flat on his stomach, just under the strange mark. Waylon had never clearly seen the scorch mark, it usually being hidden by a shirt or a blanket. His eyes dart nervously to Miles' face. Miles doesn't stir.

Curiosity getting the better of him, Waylon kneels over Miles. The mark reaches from the bottom of Miles' collarbone, thick between his pecs, ending just below his ribcage. The outer edges of the mark are black, like burnt paper. Edging further in, the color shifts into orange, with a thin white core. _Strange, it almost looks like it's glowing_. He lightly picks at one side of the mark, a small flake shifting off. When Waylon attempts to pick it up with his fingertip, the flake turns to ash. _Whoah_.

Miles' body is warm, and the closer to the center of the mark Waylon reaches towards, the more warmth his body radiates. The mark dips inward into Miles' chest, less than an inch. Waylon touches the white center.

Blazing pain burns the tip of Waylon's finger. With a yelp, Waylon pulls his hand back.

Miles' eyes snap open, darting up into a sitting position, "What? What's happening?" His head swivels on his neck. He shoots up, staring out the windows.

Waylon sits frozen. _Shit_.

"What the fuck are you screaming for?" Miles asks him, exasperated as he realizes that there's no present danger.

Looking down at his left index finger, the tip is shiny and pink, throbbing painfully, "I...I _burned_ myself."

"On _what_?"

Waylon nods at Miles' chest, "That weird mark of yours. Did you know it could do that?"

"Blake said something about it being hot, but it feels normal to me, like it's some sort of scab. Wait, how did you burn yourself?" Miles asks him, sitting down.

"Uh... _" I wasn't being a creep and looming over you like I was a serial killer studying his next victim_ , "I don't know. I must've just bumped it while we were sleeping."

"Well, are you OK?"

Before Waylon can answer, Miles grabs his wrist. Waylon's body sits still as a stone as Miles hold his hand between his own. His hands are warm from sleep, grasping Waylon gently.

Miles creases his brows, "Doesn't look too bad," he pokes the burn with the exposed on his right hand. Waylon winces.

"That hurt?"

"Yeah, it hurt! It's a burn!"

Miles grunts in response. His head tilts, and he traces the bone of his wound down Waylon's finger. Waylon holds his breath, face flushing as Miles traces down his palm with barely the ghost of a touch. Miles spreads his hand over Waylon's wrist, tracing up the scars he's scratched into himself.

"What happened here, Park?" Miles asks him, voice low.

"Scratching myself. It's....I don't know," Waylon shrugs, "I get nervous, and it's the only thing I can think to do. Most of the time I don't even realize I'm doing it."

Miles doesn't respond, nodding. He lets go of Waylon's hand.

"Let's get a move on, Park."


	33. San Francisco

It takes some backtracking, but Miles eventually is able to find highway 80. It's almost twelve in the afternoon when Miles finally pulls back onto the main road. Billy plays the radio, switching through channels, before settling on Sunshine 112.2.

"Do you know where your sister lives?" Miles asks, glancing at Waylon through his peripherals. The circles under Waylon's eyes are deep _. He looks exhausted._

"She gave me her address when she first moved down. Last time I checked, she still lived there."

"San Francisco is pretty expensive. What's she doing down there?"

"Going to school. She got a scholarship at the Academy of Art University."

Miles whistles, "Pretty impressive. That doesn't happen to a lot of kids."

Waylon laughs, "She had perfect grades, honor roll, the whole shebang. She could've gone to any school in America if she wanted to," He rubs the back of his neck, "She wants to be an actress."

"Is she any good?"

"Oh, yeah, she's talented for sure. She used to be part of drama back in high school. She never cared about getting the lead role, but every role she auditioned for, she got."

Opening his mouth for another question about Waylon's sister, Miles is cut off by Susie Sunshine on the radio.

"...... _and that concludes our commercial free music radio - hour for the morning. Now, we here at Sunshine 112.2 have gained a reputation as some sort of anti - Murkoff extremists, and I want to set the record straight for those people who see us as so. You are one - hundred - percent correct in your assumptions of us. We hate Murkoff. They're an evil, vile corporation. They care about money, not the lives of the innocent civilians of our country, or other countries."_

"Wow," Miles says, "Susie's really laying on the 'fuck the system' shit pretty thick."

"Yeah," Waylon agrees, "At least she's spreading the good word."

Miles amps up the volume, " _If you've watched the Mount Massive Incident tapes, that's just the tip of the depravity - ridden iceberg. Just this morning, we had recieved reports that the families of the victims at the road massacre in Carson City were contacted by Murkoff - oh, I'm sorry, 'mysterious third - parties.' They were offered large sums of cash in exchange for their silence, and their promises not to pursue legal action against the corporation. Now, if that doesn't scream 'We're guilty,' I don't know what does."_

_"But, there is still one open question in the air. Where are the men who exposed the Murkoff Corporation for their evils?"_

The van stutters into a cold silence. Miles shifts in his seat, gripping the steering wheel tightly. He feels Billy shift within his chest.

_"I cannot make this clear enough, we are not asking for listeners to hunt down these two men - who knows what could be happening to them now. It's best to leave them be, folks. But if Miles Upshur and Waylon Park are out there, listening to our lil' ol' radio station, I personally invite them to our home office in San Francisco. I'd be willing to extend any help I could offer."_

Susie sighs through the radio, " _Now, with the dramatics of the afternoon out of the way, here's the traffic report."_

The radio switches off. Waylon exhales, "That couldn't have been....that wasn't _real_. Was it?"

"I think she's serious, actually," Miles answers honestly. He's listened to Sunshine 112.2 since he left Los Angeles all those years ago for Nevada. Susie Sunshine has always been a strong voice for 'The People,' if 'The People' were just a bunch of assholes with good ethics.

Waylon laughs, "Does she...does she think we're _stupid_? That - that we'd just 'Oh, yes, radio lady! Please take pity on us and help us out so we don't get our heads blown off by _contract killers_!' " He throws himself back into his seat, "It's scary, isn't it? Like, did she _know_ we we're heading to San Francisco to see my sister?" His eyes are wide, almost deranged with stress.

"It could just be a coincidence," Miles mutters, not believing his own words.

"A _coincidence_?" Waylon screeches, Miles feeling his ears ring, "We should...we can't go to San Francisco."

"What?" Miles scoffs, "No, we're going - "

"It's a mistake - we should just...just keep going. They'll be waiting for us there - she may as well have created a fucking glowing beacon that says 'Wanted men here!' Are you fucking _kidding me_?"

"We aren't gonna go to the station," Miles assures him, "I'll get the address, and we'll avoid the place best we can."

"God, Miles, if we see my sister and Blackjaw shows up there - "

"They won't - "

"She'll be fucking _dead_ \- "

"That's enough, Waylon!" Miles barks.

Waylon makes a strange, frustrated sound in the back of his throat.

As calmly as he can, Miles pulls off of the highway, because he feels that if he doesn't pull over, he'll do something drastic. He ignores the ring in his ears and the tightness of his skin. He shifts the van into park.

"Do you want to see your sister, or not?" Miles keeps his tone even, hands on the wheel, "Because there's a good chance it might be the last time you do."

As soon as the sentence leaves him, Miles feels the tug of regret in his chest. It's cruel, and vile, but Miles doesn't want to sugar coat the future. Any day could be their last. Waylon deserved to make peace with his family. It would probably be a long, long time before he'd ever be able to see them again.

Waylon closes his mouth. His gaze shifts up an down over Miles' body, "I want to see her."

"Then you need to trust me. We're going to San Francisco. We're gonna see your sister. And then we're gonna leave," he turns his body towards Waylon, "No radio station."

You could hear a pin drop a hundred miles away, it was so tense and quiet. Waylon catches Miles' stare, eyes locked. In that one glare, Miles can see the days - the weeks - of frustration and anger in the tears that well in Waylon's eyes. Waylon is the first to look away. Miles exhales, turning back into his seat and starting the van up again.

"We can't let our own paranoia get the better of us, Park," Miles says, tapping the side of his head as he pulls back onto the highway, "We gotta be smarter than that."

"I know, I know," Waylon responds, quiet as he stares out the window. Billy turns the radio on.

**"** **Oh there ain't no rest for the wicked,**

**Money don't grow on trees,**

**I got bills to pay, I go mouths to feed,**

**There ain't nothing in this world for free,**

**Oh no I can't slow down, I cant hold back,**

**Though you know I wish I could, "**

  
Out of the corner of his eye, Miles sees Waylon take out his wallet, staring at the photo of his family, tight lipped.

  
**"Oh no there ain't no rest for the wicked,**

**until we close our eyes for good. "**

 

 

 

  
-

 

 

  
The ride is uneventful.

They stop at a gas station just outside of San Francisco. Miles fills up the tank while Waylon sits in the passenger seat. The gas station is busy, people coming and going from the parking lot of the attached convenience store.

Miles taps on the window, "I'm gonna go inside, want anything?"

"I'm fine."

Miles walks off, hands in his pockets and his hat low.

Waylon stares out the window, watching car and car - four so far - come and go, thumbing at his injured finger. _I wonder what Winona will say,_ Waylon thinks to himself, _would she be mad at me? No, no, I don't think so. Well, she might be angry, if we showed up without calling...but we can't call. What if her phone is tapped?_

A beat up gold Taurus pulls up. The owner exits, is gone for three or so minutes, then comes back. The Taurus pulls off.

A man is standing in the empty spot.

Waylon sits up. _Weird. I didn't even see him walk up._

The man is dressed in a strange, blue clean - suit with black gloves and boots. The same attire the scientists wore in the center chamber of the Morphogenic Engine. The bottom of the suit was drenched in blood that shined in the daylight. Unmasked, the man was too far away to properly identify, but Waylon could feel a crazed and evil gaze upon him.

Waylon locks the car, "Billy?"

"Hm?" Billy hums through the radio.

"You...you see that guy over there, right? In the empty space?"

There's silence, before Billy goes, "I don't see anyone, Waylon."

Eyes fixed on the man, Waylon watches for any movement, "Are you sure? You can't see the guy in the suit?"

"There's no one in a suit around...are you alright?"

With a heavy, frustrated sigh, Waylon rubs at his eyes with the heels of his palms, "I'm fine," _Idiot, idiot, idiot, it's just your fucked up brain. Nobody is there_. When Waylon looks out the window again, the man starts to move. The closer he gets, the more Waylon wants to leap into the backseat.

 _He's not -_ it's _not real. Stand your ground. It's not even him. It can't hurt you._

The man stops at the window. His face wears a mangled grin, eyes wide, face smeared with red. _Andrew Patterson. You tortured me. You violated me. I had to stare at your fucking face while you stuck me in that fucking chair._ Waylon wants to vomit, chest and stomach tightening. _Fuck you. Fuck you! You're dead back at the asylum - torn apart by your own patients!_

"You don't look very good, Waylon," Billy points out.

" _I'm fine,"_ Waylon's voice is strained. His hands slip under his sleeves unconsciously to scratch at his arms.

Andrew raises his hand, and bangs it on the glass of the window. Waylon closes his eyes, his hands buzzing almost painfully. He flexes them in an attempt to feel them, to no avail. Andrew bangs on the glass again - this time harder. _Fuck you, you're not real, fuck you!_

Waylon hears a muffled, gutteral groan from behind the window. He doesn't open his eyes.

_I hope you suffered more than I did._

The van shakes with the opening of the driver's side door. Waylon's eyes snap open to see Miles hop into the van.

"Got you something," He says, and holds out a bottle of iced tea. Waylon glances out of his peripherals.

Andrew is gone.

"Are you OK? You look a little pale."

 _No_ , "I'm fine," Waylon assures him, taking the bottle, "I just can't wait to see my sister. I'm just nervous."

"Nervous around your own sister? What, afraid she'll turn us away?"

"She'd never do that," Waylon uncaps the bottle, the numbing feeling fading away from his hands, "But she might beat me up for not answering her calls."

Miles snorts, "I don't know if I'll be able to help you out....I try not to get involved in family affairs."

Taking a long drink, Waylon swishes the sour taste out of his mouth, "I can't defend myself...she's too strong. She played lacrosse in high school."

"Oof. You're fucked then," Miles pulls out of the gas station.

"How do you think she would react to me, Waylon? Should I make myself known?" Billy asks through the van radio.

"I think it would be better if you stayed low," Miles answers before Waylon can, "She might freak out."

Waylon opens his mouth to protest, but he quickly closes it when he realizes that Miles is right. Winona never believed in ghosts. If they tried to introduce her to Billy, who knows how she'd react. Then there was Miles, who probably had a bounty on his head bigger than the country. Winona was a fighter, and fiercely protective. If she had even an inkling of Miles being dangerous, or even had the thought of Waylon being in danger, she'd come out swinging.

Billy hums in response, "I don't like not being known. I didn't like how you left me out with Chrissy."

Miles shrugs with a hefty sigh, "It's not rocket science, Billy. You saw her there, she's.... _dramatic_ , easily freaked - out. You think she'd react calmly to knowing about you?"

"The Langermanns acted calmly," Billy says, voices slightly pitched.

"They're professionals. They make their livelihood keeping their cool in hard situations. Look, it's just hard to explain to people a man they can't see. It's just better for them not to think about."

Billy hmphs through the radio, "I still don't like it."

Waylon can't stop smiling as he listens to the two bicker.

 

 

 

-

 

 

  
 _"Fuck!"_ Miles grumbles as he swerves to avoid colliding with a car reversing out of a driveway. Miles had forgotten how fucking bad the roads were in San Francisco. _Almost as bad as Los Angeles. No one fucking watches where they're going,_ "What street is her complex on?"

"Just up ahead," Waylon says, head swiveling as he scans the road signs. He points forward, "The next block up, then we're making a right. It's gonna be a red brick building with white windows."

Miles follows Waylon's directions, going up the next block, turning right. After a few hundred feet, Miles finally sees a brick building with white windows. He pulls into the complex entrance. A buzzer with a guardrail blocks the way.

Miles puts the car in park, "You ready to see your sister, Waylon?"

"Yup," Waylon replies, unconvincingly. He warily exits the van, walking up to the buzzer. Billy takes his seat, sitting cross - legged.

From the driver's seat, Miles can see the buzzer has a keypad, and a list that could only be apartment numbers. Miles rolls the van window down, leaning out, scanning around.

"Do me a favor, Billy, go take a look around the block."

"Just in case," Billy agrees, disappearing.

Waylon hits one of the apartment buttons, "Um...hello? Is Winona home? Winona Park?"

The two wait a minute. There's no answer.

"Maybe she's not home," Miles supplies, "She's got a job, right?"

"Yeah, she's a waitress somewhere," Waylon leans against his crutch, "Should we park somewhere and just w - "

" _Waylon Park_!"

Waylon freezes, and turns on his heel. Craning his neck, Miles see's a young woman dart out of an entrance door. Miles, on instinct, jumps out of the van. The woman races towards Waylon, who barely can react as she claims him in a tight hug that almost knocks him over. The crutch flies from Waylon's arm.

"I'm going to _kill_ you," Winona croaks, voice strained, "Where _were_ you? Why didn't you call me?"

Miles watches Waylon wrap his arms around his sister with a sob, "I'm so _sorry._..I couldn't, it wasn't safe."

"Mom and dad have been calling me non _stop_. Lisa said she didn't know where you _were_ ," Winona pulls back, holding Waylon by his shoulders, "Oh my God, Way, what _happened_ to you?"

"I knew they were bad news, Winnie, I knew, but I didn't think it was like _that_ \- " Winona cuts him off by pulling him back into a hug.

Miles leans back against the van, arms crossing.

"Nobody suspicious is a - " Billy starts, appearing by Miles' side. He stops when he sees Waylon and Winona, "Oh...is that her?"

When Winona lets go again, she looks over Waylon's shoulder. Her eyes go wide when she sees Miles, "Oh my God."

Miles waves. _Please don't snitch on us._

"Is that....oh my _God_ , you're travelling together? Is _that_ where you've been this whole time? Oh my God - are you OK, did he hurt you? If he hurt you I'll fucking kill him - "

"I'm fine, Winnie, I'm fine. We can trust him," Waylon kisses the side of her head, holding her tight, "Jesus, I didn't know when I'd see you again."

Winona's eyes well, and she breaks her gaze with Miles to bury her head in his shoulder. They hold each other, crying for who knows how long, and both Park siblings are properly red - eyed and puffy by the time they break apart. Winona sniffles in an almost comedic fashion, looking down at Waylon's leg.

"What happened here, Waylon?"

"I...I broke my leg. Did you see the Mount Massive Incident tapes?" Waylon asks her. Though he's a few inches taller than his sister, Waylon speaks as if he's smaller. Winona nods, and Miles watches Waylon deflate. He turns, waving Miles over.

Walking closer, Miles is almost shocked at how similar Waylon and Winona are. Waylon looked older, and was taller, but if you crossed your eyes, you'd think the two were twins. They had the same eyes and noses. Winona had tan skin, and hazel eyes, but her sandy hair was cropped short into a crew cut. Her figure was stout, and she was wearing a tank top and pajama pants, with a pair of white and red running sneakers. Winona pulled at a small chain around her neck, eyeing Miles as he approaches.

"Hi," Miles starts, sticking his hand out, "I'm Miles."

Winona looks down to shake his hand, and her eyebrows shoot up, staring at his missing finger. Miles lets his hand linger, and eventually, Winona takes it. Her grip is strong. _This girl could kill me, if I could die._

"I'm Winona," she says, wary. Miles flashes her a grin. Billy floats into view, feet planted as he stands next to Winona. He stands up straight, one arm behind his back, eyes closed and chin tilted up. His free hand is out in a mock handshake gesture. His hand closes around an invisible hand, and he gives it a shake. _Wise - ass._

"Maybe we should go inside," Waylon offers, voice low.

"Yeah, we should. You have a lot of explaining to do, Waylon Park," Winona turns to the keypad, entering a few numbers. The rail lifts, "You can park your van in our lot."

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

"Do you have any roommates, Winnie?" Waylon asks as she unlocks her apartment door, quickly ushering him and Miles inside with their bags. Waylon has Miles' box of cassette tapes under his arm.

"No, my last roommate moved out. The landlord has been looking to try and fill her room, but there's been no takers yet."

The inside of the apartment is much, _much_ better than the one Waylon had when he was in college. It's open, big windows streaming in sunlight to illuminate painted white walls. Red decorations, frames, and furniture match a style Waylon knew Winona for. _Everything had to match, even as a kid._

Miles whistles, "Whoah."

Winona flashes one of her famous, proud grins, "Decorated it myself," she waves them into a side room, "This was the other room that my old roommate left. I put an air mattress in there for company - "

"I don't...I don't know if we'll be staying, Winnie," Waylon says, and the honesty hurts him to speak _. I want to stay. But we can't._

"Why not, Park?" Miles says, coaxing the box of cassettes from Waylon's arm and entering the spare room. It's completely unfurnished besides the air - mattress, "We're here. Just one night couldn't hurt."

Winona's arms cross, "Your faces are all over the news. I can't open my Twitter without seeing one of you. You guys can stay here as long as you like."

Shaking his head sadly, Waylon holds one of Winona's hands, "We won't be staying that long...maybe just a day, but we can't any longer."

"Anyone stop by?" Miles asks. He drops their bags, checking outside through a small window.

"Yeah, a day after your footage was posted. A guy in a black suit - a lawyer, he said, for Murkoff. He wanted to know if I knew where you were, Way. Apparently, you broke your contract, and are in major legal trouble."

 _The law is the last thing on my mind right now._ Waylon folds an arm around her shoulders.

"Notice anything weird around? Black vans, people watching your building, anything like that?" Miles asks, still staring out the window.

"Nothing out of the ordinary. I thought people might be after you, so I've been keeping a close eye on the neighborhood."

"That's smart," Miles says. He turns towards the two, "Really smart. You sure you want to be an actress?"

Winona huffs a laugh, "I'm sure."

"Because Waylon makes it seem like you're up and running for the next election," he jerks a thumb at Waylon, "You should've seen this guy talk about you. Like you hung the moon or something, real proud."

Winona scoffs, " _Waylon_ ," she punches him in the arm. Waylon grins, toothless and shy.

"What was it you said, Park? ' _Could've gone to any school in America, her grades were so good_.' Talking about honor roll, prom queen, valedictorian, volunteer firefighter - I could go on, really."

Waylon shrinks into his coat as Winona laughs. She punches him in the arm harder this time, "He still acts like I'm in high school! What, do you have a picture of me in your wallet?"

"No, no, I don't have a photo small enough of you to carry around," Waylon rubs his sore arm.

"Some brother you are. Don't have a photo of me in your wallet, and you didn't even notice my new haircut," she tucks her hands under her chin, dimples deep with a grin. Waylon pinches her cheek, then smooths his hand over the shaved sides of her head.

"Looks good. Did your girlfriend do that for you?" Winona had mentioned a girlfriend on her calls. They've been dating for a few months, but Waylon had only seen one blurry, silly photo of the two together. _God, I don't even remember her name._

"She did. I'll try and keep her away from my place while you're here, make up something about the landlord showing the free room. I have work the next few days, but I can try and take off - "

"No, no no no, I wouldn't have agreed to come here if it meant we'd fuck your whole routine up," Winona was meticulous. She liked a schedule, liked order. Messes and unannounced plans easily stressed her out. Their parents had toyed with the idea of her having OCD as a child, but they never followed up on any official diagnoses.

Winona shrugs, "Really, Waylon, I don't mind....but you have to tell me what's been going on...and how you and him," She motions to Miles, "Met up."

"That's fair," Waylon agrees, "You deserve the truth. It's been...." he takes a deep breath, "More than rough."

 

 

  
-

 

 

  
Winona puts on a tea kettle, and Miles leans back into a faded, red wooden kitchen chair as he watches the two Parks interact. The kitchen is wide and open, with white cabinets, big windows streaming sunlight in. _Nice place_. He glances at the oven clock. It's almost three in the afternoon.

He doesn't interrupt as Waylon retells the road so far. Waylon talks about finding Miles passed out, escaping with him. They recouped for a few days, then left as soon as they posted their footage. He skips over the parts with Billy in them _(Thank God_.)

Every time Miles tries to follow the conversation, he ends up spacing out. He's tried, again and again, to focus on the discussion at hand, but he's... _distracted_. Mostly by Waylon, partly because of the freakishly stylish furnishings of Winona's apartment. _Artists types._

What catches Miles' attention, besides the tremor in Waylon's voice, is how different Waylon is around his sister. He has a lot more confidence in the way he speaks, and carries himself in a stronger way. There's no barrier between the two. Miles could say he's jealous of Waylon for having a sibling, having someone in his life he could tell anything to. _Waylon may be trapped in his own experiences, but he's more free than me._

"...Miles? You OK?" Waylon waves a hand, catching Miles' attention.

Miles sits up, elbows leaned against the table, "What's up?"

"You were spacing out there."

"Well, I didn't want to interrupt your family bonding time here, Park," Miles twists around. Billy is leaning on the back of the well - loved red couch, bouncing a leg in impatience _(Or boredom.)_

"This is so fucked up," Winona says, placing three full and steaming mugs of tea on the kitchen table, "I can't believe you're both alive. Do you know how lucky you are?"

Waylon's eyes tear up, "It doesn't feel like I'm lucky, Winnie. God, I wanna believe this is all a sick joke, a bad dream. Have you talked to my wife?"

"I've fucking tried. I called her this morning, I've been calling all fucking _week_. She kept saying she didn't know where you were, but she didn't ask me if I'd heard from you, or seen you. I knew she was lying. Why did you leave?" she sits back down at the table. 

"God, Winnie, these people are monsters. They - they showed up to our house - "

Miles reaches across the table to grasp Waylon's white - knuckled hand, "I snuck us out through the back, stole one of their vans. We barely got out," _Christ, Park_. Winona's eyes switch from a worried stare, to a half - glare at Miles. _Shit_.

"They would've killed my family if we didn't leave," Waylon's hand jerks to grip Miles', achingly tight, voice cracking, "I - I never wanted to leave, Winnie, you have to believe me - "

"Why not take your family with you?" Winona asks.

"Fuck, they were after us - _me_. Not my kids. Not my wife. Their lives shouldn't have to be...be _ruined_ because of what I did!"

"I mean...the truth is already out there," Winona crosses her arms, leaning onto the table, "Murkoff is finished. Why hide?"

Waylon's other hand runs under his sleeve, scratching, looking down. Miles grabs his wrist, gently coaxing Waylon's hands back out, keeping it clasped between his own, "You know what happened in Carson City, right?"

Winona nods, "Blackjaw forces were barreling through the streets. It was carnage. Forty people injured, six dead."

 _Six dead. Fuck_. Miles hears Waylon inhale sharply. Billy has moved from the couch to the kitchen counter, sitting quietly. Billy looks down at the floor, playing with his fingers. Miles clears his throat, guilt bubbling into anger. _There was nothing we could do. We couldn't have known they'd chase us down like that_ , "You know why they were racing down the streets?"

"Nobody does," Winona snaps. She fidgets in her seat. The way she stares at Miles makes him feel like she's boring a hole into his brain, trying to probe inside.  _She knows we aren't telling her everything. Fuck._

Miles continues, unfazed "They were chasing _us_ ," Miles pauses, watching Winona's face fall, "I lived in Carson. We stopped by my apartment just so I could collect some things. I thought it was clear. They're hunting us down. If we show our faces, we're dead. Point blank, that's it. That's why Waylon had to leave. He stays, that whole family is dead."

A soft sob vibrates from Waylon, who's head hangs, staring down. Winona's hand snakes up to grasp Waylon's free hand, clenching tight.

"These people don't care who gets hurt," Waylon's voice shudders, "They - They'll _kill_ until no one is left. As soon as they catch us - "

"They aren't taking you anywhere," Winona says, growls, more like, "Over my dead fuckin' _body_."

"Open your eyes, Winona!" Waylon grinds out, "You can act all fucking tough, but this is real fucking _death_ we're talking about!" He rips his hands away from the two, holding his arms, "This is all we can do. _Run_. There's nowhere we can go to escape them."

The hurt, the raw, uncensored _hurt_ that crosses Winona's face digs a pit into Miles' stomach.

"Don't _say_ that," Winona insists, grabbing Waylon by his shoulders, "There's always an end to the road - "

"If there's a fucking end, it ends with a _gravestone_. We're fucking dead men walking - " Fat tears roll down Waylon's cheeks, " _Jesus_ , I'm so sorry, Winnie, I'm so sorry I did this - "

Winona half - scrambles to pull Waylon into a tight hug, burying her head into his shoulder.

In that moment, Miles feels his skin crawl. Suddenly, he feels unwanted in Winona's apartment, nothing but a vouyer, watching. Miles barely had anything to his name. There were the Langermanns, but the couple had their own lives, ones that wouldn't change with Miles' absence. But Waylon? Waylon Park gave up everything, _everything_ , to expose Murkoff. His family, his peace of mind. What was left of the man was a guilt - ridden mess. Miles shifts in his seat, and stands from the table.

"Where are you going?" Billy asks, quiet from the back of Miles' mind. The Parks don't look up as Miles leaves the apartment.

Closing the door behind him, Miles answers, "They need time alone," he pats his pockets for the lighter and cigarette pack he picked up from the gas station a few miles back, "And I need a fucking smoke."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oof writing dialogue is hard :)
> 
> Andrew Patterson = the dude from the beginning of whistleblower who was in the therapy room while waylon was in the chair. i used his VAs last name but Andrew is the character's canon name
> 
> ty for reading :)


	34. Sister

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for: brief sexual contact

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :) hoo hoo hoo oh boy im :) fuck dialogue......i dont want anyone to talk to eachother.......
> 
> also Winona is a lesbian. I cannot stress this enough. Winona and Waylon is WLW/MLM solidarity. Winona used to share funny gay memes with him but Waylon is like mega old so hes like "i dont understand!"
> 
> Miles' love for Vin Diesel is brought up again.....my dad and i love the Riddick movies and i especially love Pitch Black so :) eeeee

Miles burns through five cigarettes, watching Billy amuse himself with stray leaves on the ground. He makes the wind carry them to and fro, passing and switching from one hand to the next. Miles has shed his coat, the weather bright and sunny and bearing down on him. He holds it limply in his hand, hat low. He hears the creak of a door. Snuffing out his sixth cigarette, he see's Winona poke her head out. She takes a wary glance around, stepping outside. Her face is grim, but red and puffy.

"Waylon says you're not dangerous," she says with a sniff, "That you've done a lot for him. I don't have to worry about you killing me in my sleep," her arms cross, "But you aren't telling me the whole truth."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Miles mutters as he lights his seventh smoke.

"Six died in the chase in Carson, some of the ones in critical condition might not make it out, but those were just the people caught in the crossfire. Those Blackjaw guys in the vans?"

Miles picks his head up, meeting her steely gaze. Billy is behind her, staring over her shoulder.

"There was nothing left of them. I'm talking _Nightmare On Elm Street_ levels of gore. A car crash couldn't obliterate one person like that, let alone _three_ vans worth of them. I know you had something to do with it."

"I didn't kill those assholes," Miles bites, exhaling. Billy fidgets behind Winona.

"Maybe not you. Maybe it was something else."

The breath leaving his body, Miles finishes his cigarette, "Can we talk about this inside?" He feels tight in his own skin.

"No. I don't want you in my apartment, or around my brother, until I get the truth. Tell me about the Walrider."

Anger bubbles, Miles' jaw clenching. _I can't believe he told her. We talked about this - no Billy, wasn't it obvious when we were talking to her? Fuck!_ He watches Billy slink away, sitting down on the sidewalk.

"What _exactly_ did Waylon tell you?" Miles throws the cigarette butt onto the sidewalk, stomping it out.

"That you've saved his skin four times over. You, and a ghost," Winona's foot taps impatiently, "But I don't believe in ghosts. I watched your footage, saw the parts with that....that _thing_ there. You're carrying it with you. The Walrider."

Running his hands over his face, Miles could scream. _This could've been easy. We could've popped in, 'Hey Sis how ya' doin?' and got the fuck out of here. Jesus Christ, I - I wanna be mad at the guy, but fuck, can I really blame him_? In defeat, Miles lets out an angry sigh, "How _much_ did Waylon tell you?" He asks, with a little more venom than he would've liked.

"That you - that that _thing_ \- killed the people who went after you," Winona's arms drop to her sides, body tense in response, "He thinks that some _spirit_ is living in you, that guy from the asylum, William Hope."

Miles wishes they were back in the desert, a scream bubbling in the back of his throat. He closes his eyes, taking a deep breath, counting to ten quietly to himself, exhaling. Opening his eyes again, Winona is leaning back onto her heel, ready to run.

"It's more fucking nuanced than that," Miles says slowly, "But he's right. But it's...," his eyes wander to Billy, "He's not the same thing. The Walrider was different. It was like an animal," he looks down, his hands clenching, "It only existed to kill. Billy isn't like that."

Winona laughs, arms raised, her fingers locked behind her head in disbelief, "What, now that Hope guy is in you? Are you fucking _serious_?"

"Something happened when I shut the Engine down. I still don't understand _how,_ or _why_ , but the Walrider disappeared, and Billy took it's place."

Winona turns around, staring up at the sky, "Fuck, this is _crazy_ ," she sniffs, "And Waylon believes it?"

"You _don't_? After all the shit you've seen, you can't believe him?"

She twists back around, eyes wide, "Do _you_ even fucking believe any of this shit?" she waves her hands, voice loud, "Like, what, there's another dude just in you? It's - it's unbelievable!"

Miles takes a step closer, palms out, "Can you keep your voice down?"

" _Fuck you_!" She hisses, "I don't know if that's true! Waylon said he couldn't see him, but you can, and that just _doesn't_ add up to me!"

Miles takes a second to himself, _She's a kid, relax, she's a kid_ , flexing his hands. He looks to Billy, who's legs are drawn up to his chest, hands threading through his long and greasy hair. Their eyes meet.

"Waylon has his radio inside," Billy says, "Take her to the van. Let me talk to her."

There's nothing Miles can say that's an any better idea. Miles opens his mouth, Billy cutting him off before he can speak.

"Wait," he says, standing, "Give her the keys. Tell her to start the van, and turn the radio on."

Miles shoots him a puzzled look.

"Trust me, Upshur, let me talk to her."

Despite knowing that this could blow up in their faces in the worst possible way, he reaches into his pocket for his keys. _Hey, she wants proof of a ghost, what's better than a conversation with one_? He throws them into Winona's direction. She catches them, shooting him a confused glare.

"You want your evidence? Go to the van. Turn the radio on. That'll be all you need."

"What does the radio have to do with anything?" She asks, playing with the gold chain around her neck, clenching the keys tight.

Miles takes out his cigarette pack, lighting another smoke, "You'll find out. I'll wait here."

 

 

  
-

 

 

  
As soon as Winona shuts the door behind her, Waylon knows he's made a terrible, terrible mistake coming here. When the week came flooding out of him, in stuttered words and tears, Winona cried with him. He told her about Blackjaw, about Miles, Lisa, his hallucinations, his pain. _Everything_ he had bottled up inside was out. She held him tight, like he did when she was five and he was teaching her how to ride a bike without her training wheels, and she fell off, and she cried and cried until Waylon picked her up off the pavement. But when Waylon started talking about Billy, Winona got quiet. Very quiet.

"I know, I _know_ that look, Winnie, and it's not like that. William Hope. He's here, with _us._ It's - it's like he never _died_. He protected us, killed those mercenaries! He's the reason we're both still alive!"

Winona said she wanted to check on Miles, see if he was alright. She left quickly, and the situation sunk heavy onto Waylon. _She thinks I'm crazy, and now she's going downstairs to talk to Miles. Merry Hell, he's gonna be mad at me._

So Waylon sits quietly in the afternoon sunlight, clutching his now cold cup of tea. The time ticks on, to just past four. _I fucked up, bad, and now they're probably in a screaming match with each other downstairs._ Miles didn't take hostility well, and Winona never liked anyone giving her an attitude. Head spinning, his eyes pulsing with stress and worry, Waylon scratches at his arms. _I messed this all up. She doesn't trust Miles, and now she can't trust me. Fuck, now_ Miles _can't trust me._

He counts the frames on the walls - eleven - and the chairs in the kitchen - four. Winona was very neat, and there weren't many things to count, and that caused Waylon to sweat. He counts them again and again, each mill of the numbers causing his heart to race faster and faster. His head swivels, looking for anything else to focus on. Seeing nothing that's greater than three, Waylon stands, and searches through the kitchen drawers. He breathes a sigh of relief when the first drawer is filled with cutlery. He counts eighteen utensils altogether - six knives, six forks, six spoons. He keeps counting, over and over, until his nerves settle. He doesn't hear the door open.

"Way?" Winona's voice is small. Waylon twists around, quickly shutting the drawer, "What are you doing?"

He shrugs, "Just...being nosy," her eyes are wide and worried. Miles is standing behind her, hands in his pockets, "What's wrong?"

Winona doesn't say anything as she quickly crosses the kitchen, arms outstretched. Waylon meets her halfway, holding her tight. He stares at Miles from over her head. _What happened?_

Miles mouths back silently. _Billy_.

Waylon's brows furrow. _I'm sorry._

Miles waves a hand with a shrug.

Winona pulls back, face stoic, "He's real," she whispers tightly, holding Waylon by his shoulders, "He's...he's _real_."

"I said he was," Waylon says, drained of energy, "Did you...did you speak with him?"

"She did," Billy says through the radio on Waylon's belt. He almost sounds happy, "You two are very, very different."

Waylon looks back to Miles, who shrugs again. He stares at Waylon, scowl a little deeper than usual, an unspoken ' _We're talking about this later.'_ Waylon focuses back on his sister.

"Are you...are you OK?" He asks stupidly.

"No, I'm not _fucking_ OK!" Winona bites, "Jesus, I think you're _dead_ , and - and then you show up with _Miles Upshur_ of all people," her voice raises, "And I just had a friendly chat with a _ghost_! I'm not OK! I'm the least OK I've ever been!"

"If it's any consolation, I'm not a real ghost," Billy quips, "I'm just the collection of a man's memories stored in nanotech."

She breathes heavily, pulling at her hair, a common stress reaction that Waylon quickly bats away.

"Don't do that, you barely have enough hair as it is," he says, "This is a lot, I know, but I had to tell you. You deserved to know the truth," he ignores the heavy stare Miles shoots him, "The _whole_ truth."

He leads her to a chair, sitting her down. As soon as he does, a shrill rings fills the air. Looking at the kitchen counter, a bright red smartphone buzzes and rings. Out of habit, Waylon crosses the kitchen to check who's calling.

" _Wait_ \- " Winona says, standing back up.

Waylon has already picked up the ringing phone, turning it over.

 

 

  
-

 

 

  
Waylon's body locks up, crutch dangling. Miles stands straight, "What is it?"

Winona tries to grab the phone from Waylon's hand, but he quickly turns away, getting a good three feet between him and his sister. He turns, phone still ringing in his hand, face creased into a frown, his eyes wide. Miles watches him visibly gulp down his words, holding the phone up.

 **Susie Sunshine**  
  
**(Boss)**

Miles feels all of the warmth of the room sucked out, the loudness of the ringer drowning out his thoughts. Billy, who's sitting on the table next to him, hops down.

"Uh oh," he says quietly, disappearing into smoke and sifting back into Miles.

The ugly, familiar feeling of rage spikes through Miles. He lets it rise and fall with each heavy, deep breath. _We told her everything. I'm an idiot. I can't blame Waylon, but I should've been smarter. Fuck._ His hands clench, unclench, flexing like his anger.

Winona won't meet either of the men's faces. Her hands come back to her head to pull at her hair, play with her chain. The phone keeps ringing.

"Aren't you gonna answer it?" Miles says, motioning to the phone. Winona stares like he's grown a second head. He gestures to the phone in Waylon's hand, "Go on. I'm not gonna stop you."

She takes a second, bewildered, but quickly grabs it from Waylon's hand. She answers quickly, "Hello?"

"Speaker. Put it on speaker."

Winona complies, hitting the speaker option, placing the phone down flat on the table.

" _Hey, Winona, did you ever fill out those forms_?" Susie asks from the other end, " _I need to turn them into the office later this week_."

Winona's eyes flit between Miles and Waylon.

" _Winona? Hellooo_?"

"Um, yeah, yeah, I filled them out this morning," She sits down at the table, "I'm bringing them in tomorrow."

" _Are you alright? You sound weird_."

"I'm fine," Winona assures her.

" _Is it about your brother_?"

Waylon's hands fly to his mouth, stifling a strange, shocked noise. The muscles in Miles' body tightens. _Susie Sunshine has a Park on her side. An inside informant._

"Yeah," Winona answers, staring down, "I just have a bad feeling about everything."

" _No calls?_ "

"None."

 _"Hm. Well, don't worry, he's your brother. He'll call you soon. What's the chances he'll contact you after my announcement today?_ "

Winona looks at the two men standing in her kitchen, "I don't know."

" _Well, see you tomorrow then. Take care, Park."_

"See ya'."

Susie hangs up. Miles could tear the apartment apart.

"I thought you said she was a waitress, Park," he says with a glare. Winona won't look up.

Waylon leans against the table, "She knows about me? She knows I'm your brother?"

Winona nods, head in her hands, "I...I got an internship at her radio station, right after you started working for Murkoff. When the footage came out, everyone started asking me questions, a - and Susie actually _cares_ \- "

Shaking his head, Miles lets his hands run down his face, "You didn't believe that, did you?"

"Miles," Waylon rebukes tightly, "Don't - "

"She's a fucking _radio personality_ , all she cares about is getting her name out there - "

"She cares," Winona says, standing, stance defensive, like she's in a boxing ring, "I've met a lot of people who bullshit and act like right - fighters for their own gain, but Susie isn't like that. She _cares_ about people. Look at the Sunshine radio website - it's filled with GoFundMe's and shit for the families of the people who died, support groups, hotlines. She doesn't care about fame, or fortune. She cares about _people_ ," she motions to Miles, "I've read loads of your articles, Upshur. You're just the same. You fight for the truth, and for the people."

"Yeah, but I went out there and found it out for myself. I don't let my interns research all this  _shit_ for me," he spits loudly, hands waving, "You know what? It doesn't even matter, because we can't stay here now."

The color drains from Winona's face. Waylon's head snaps to Miles. Both Park's look on the edge of tears, same hazel eyes wet in the light. He can feel Billy sift uncomfortably under his skin, as if that would loosen up his tight ball of emotion of nerves that knotted in his stomach.

"You barely got through a phone conversation. If she's as smart as you think she is," Miles wishes he could stop himself, his own fury overtaking him, "She'll find out that Waylon's here - and where Waylon is, I'm not so fucking far behind."

"She just wants to talk with you," Winona says, holding it together, unlike Waylon, who's shaking, "She supports the two of you."

"We don't _need_ her support. The last thing we need is another person with a target on their backs. Openly supporting us is different than actually conspiring with us. You know what happens when Murkoff finds out you've spoken to us? You're dead, Susie's dead, whoever's in on the deal is _dead_."

Waylon stumbles into a chair, holding his arms. Winona reaches over the table, holding a hand to his shoulder. They all share a long, stressed silence. Before Miles can say _We're leaving, now_ , Waylon speaks.

"Wa can't talk to Susie," he says, eyes fixed down, "But I think it's smarter if we stay here. There's a good chance Murkoff and Blackjaw are listening in on Susie's station. They probably have eyes all over the city, and surrounding areas already," His voice is quiet, surprisingly stoic in tone, "Even if we wanted to leave, we're more likely to get spotted by people. I wouldn't be surprised if they already had reports of us here."

Letting out an angry sigh, Miles rubs at his face, "Fuck," _Trapped like rats_.

"I'm sorry," Winona says, "I didn't know you two would show up here."

"It's not your fault," Waylon says, touching her hand on his shoulder, "How would you have known? We never should've come in the first place."

 

 

  
-

 

 

  
Waylon plays with the radio on his hip, flipping through channels at the kitchen table, watching the dial turn and the needle switch from one number to another. Sunset falls through the windows, reaching almost seven. Miles is watching the news on Winona's couch, a dark cloud over his head. Winona is leaning against the kitchen counter. Waylon can feel her worried eyes on him. He switches to one channel, an invisible force knocking the dial back to a different one. He switches to a different channel, the same force switching it back.

"Are you bored?" Waylon asks.

"A little," Billy says, "I used to take long walks when I was bored as a child. It kept me out of my mom's hair, and I got to collect bugs and things. I wasn't allowed to bring anything inside, though. She'd throw them out the first chance she'd get," The dial spins quickly, back and forth.

"You talk like you were alive," Winona says, hollow.

"I was, in a sense," Billy responds, the dial stopping, "I'm Billy Hope. His memories are mine, and I'm him, whether I'm machine or spirit."

Winona looks down at her phone, which rings and buzzes in her hand. She mutters something about having to take it, rushing out of the room.

"I like your sister, Waylon," Billy says, quiet, "She cares a lot for you."

"She's always been like that, acting like the big sister instead of the little one. She's got a big heart."

"Just like you."

Waylon mutters, slightly bashful. He holds the radio close as he stands from the table, curious to see what Miles was watching. Miles see's him approach from the corner of his eye, scooting left to give Waylon room to sit. The television plays an insurance commercial, and Miles turns the volume down.

"Anything new?" Waylon asks.

"Couple uh..." Miles shakes his head, elbows on his knees, "Couple more people died from their injuries from Carson. Brings the total of dead to eight."

A rock drops in Waylon's stomach, "Oh no."

"Yeah. It's chaos out there. Blackjaw getting into shootout with police, fucking _shootouts_ , in broad daylight," Miles sits back up, hands on his thighs, "Then there's a few grainy photos of us, can't even see our faces, out from that laundromat in Carson, but nothing else. As far as the world's concerned, we're nowhere to be found," he turns his head. His eyes are deep, circles dark, "We'll try to leave in a few days, wait until Sunshine's hype dies down," he looks around the apartment, "Where's Winona?"

"She went to take a call."

That made Miles' shoulders tense, "You know who's calling?"

"No."

Miles grunts in response, leaning back into the couch _. I can't tell if he's more angry with me, or with Winona_. Waylon clears his throat.

"Miles - "

"Don't. I know what you're gonna say, Park, you're gonna cry and say your sorries and beg for my forgiveness, or whatever. Save it. I'm not mad at you," Miles keeps his voice tight, curt.

 _You don't sound 'not mad,'_ Waylon wants to say, but decides to keep it to himself. He doesn't realize he's staring, fixed on Miles' glower. His dead eyes are dark to match his mood.

"What, you want to hug it out or something?" Miles snaps, more teasing than anything malicious. Waylon flushes, fingering the bag around his neck. That earns him a low laugh from Miles, "Oh, you want a hug, Park?"

"No, no - " Waylon tries not to grin, "Don't, I don't - "

Miles grins crooked, showing teeth, "Because we can hug it out," he raises his hands, palms out.

"I don't want a hug," Waylon tells him.

Miles shrugs, jesting Waylon in the arm, "What kind of grown man can't give another grown man a hug?" He scoffs, "You're no fun."

There's the sound of the close of a door, and Winona exits a room, her phone clutched tight in her hand. Her face has lost the thick grimness of before, softer now, but still worried. Waylon stands.

"What is it?"

"My, um, my girlfriend wanted to go out tonight, but with you guys here I - " she fingers the her chain, "Are you guys hungry? I can get takeout."

"Oh, Winnie," Waylon says, stepping over to her, "You shouldn't have said no," Guilt stirs in his gut.

Winona looks taken aback, "Are you _kidding_? You want me to act like everything is normal?" she waves her hands, "Like _, 'Hey Baby, can't stay out too late, my brother - you know, the brother from the news? - Is at my apartment and I have to make sure he doesn't get killed by the men in black_!'" she shakes her head.

"I'm a grown man," Waylon says, "We'll be fine. I've _been_ fine. I can take care of myself. All you need to do is go on with your life, like we aren't here."

She eyes him, up and down. Waylon takes a deep, shaky breath, knowing that she can see right through him. Because, deep down, Waylon Park is _not_ fine, but this facade is all he has, and he needs his sister to believe in him.

"Go out. Have fun. Don't worry about us, OK? I've been alright so far. That's not going to change the second you leave."

"I still don't know....."

"Would my word be enough?" Billy asks, voice muffled from Waylon's chest, "Because I've been very good at making sure Waylon had survived so far."

Crossing her arms, Winona stares down at the radio, pondering.

"Don't let our presence ruin your fun," Billy says, "It's not fair that you're trapped here."

"Does your girlfriend know about Waylon's involvement with Mount Massive?" Miles asks from the couch.

"Yeah, she does," Winona answers.

"Wouldn't it be a little suspicious that you suddenly blew her off? What if she tries to call you tomorrow, or the next day? What if she shows up here?"

Winona's hands move to her hips, exhaling. She stares down at the floor, lost in thought. Eventually, she sighs in defeat, " _Fine_ , since you're all _desperate_ to kick me out of my own apartment."

Waylon starts, "That's not - "

"But I have some ground rules while I'm gone," With each point, she extends a finger, " _First_ : Stay out of my room. _Second_ : Don't let my neighbors see you. _Third_ : Under any circumstances, stay out of my room. Are we clear?"

Miles, Waylon, and Billy all mutter their agreements.

"Give me your cell number," Miles says, "First sign of trouble, we'll dip and call you."

Winona agrees, if reluctantly.

An hour later, Winona is dressed in a pair of baggy jeans, and a clean, baggy tank top, with a snapback she wears backwards. Miles gives her a few crisp hundreds.

"Have fun," He says with a soft smile that makes Waylon's heart flutter, "And consider this rent."

She gives Waylon a kiss on the cheek, and a sideways glance at the radio in his hand, and is out the door.

"What time is it?" Miles asks.

"Eight - o - eight," Billy answers, "Too early for bed."

"You said it, pal," Miles stretches arms and shoulders, "Feel like a movie, Park?"

 

 

  
-

 

 

After some playful arguing, Miles and Waylon finally settle on and eight - thirty showing of _Pitch Black,_ starring Vin Diesel and Radha Mitchell.

"What's with you and Vin Diesel?" Waylon asks, rifling through Winona's cabinets. Miles watches him bring out a bag of popcorn from a box, and pop it into the microwave, "You had, like, every one of his movies back in your apartment."

"I don't know, he's just got this... _swagger_ to him, y'know? He's expressive, resilient, optimistic," Miles presses the buzzer on the microwave a second before it sets off, popping it open. Waylon had brought out a glass bowl, and Miles pours the popcorn in, the smell of butter wafting through the kitchen, "Plus, he has one smokin' hot body."

Waylon laughs as the two of them settle on the couch, "So it's _not_ because he's an amazing actor?"

Miles scoffs, "Oh, no, he's _amazing_. Did you see him in _Guardians of the Galaxy_? That's real acting, Park," Miles can't remember how exactly he got into Vin Diesel, but he likes his style, and the mind - numbing fake dramas of the action movies he usually stars in. Doesn't hurt that he's just Miles' type, either. Muscular, with a nice smile.  _Really looks like he could show a man a good time._

"I've seen _The Pacifier_ , part of _Riddick_ , and _Guardians of the Galaxy_ ," Waylon says, occupying the couch's right side, placing Billy's radio on the coffee table and putting the popcorn bowl in the center cushion. The couch was big enough for three people to comfortable sit in, red and worn from use.

"What about _The Iron Giant_?"

"I didn't know he was in there. Who'd he play?"

"The Iron Giant. Pretty sure that movie made me cry."

Black smoke materializes at the foot of the couch, and Billy sits on the floor, leaning his elbows on the coffee table, "Oh, I loved that movie," Miles hears him say from the radio, and from his place on the floor, "I loved the art style."

 _Pitch Black_ started on the TV, and the three of them fell into silence. Waylon pecks at the popcorn bowl, legs drawn up onto the couch. Waylon has shed his day clothes, dressed in sweatpants and a baggy grey hoodie with the sleeves pulled up. Miles was still in his jeans and faded t - shirt. About twenty minutes in, Miles glances at Waylon from the corner of his eye. He shifts, leaning on his right thigh to rub at his left calf.

"You alright, Park?"

"I'm fine, it's just my leg," his fingers dig into his leg, rolling the muscle through his sweatpants.

" _Sh!_ " Billy hisses.

Miles snorts, turning his attention back to the movie.

They make it until the group of survivors from the ship crash find the abandoned research settlement, when Miles sees Waylon shift again. He winces when he touches his leg this time.

"You good, Park?"

"Yeah. I'm fine," Waylon sounds less convincing this time.

The third time Waylon grabs his leg, at the part where the survivors go back to their crashed ship, Miles stands, grumbling something about going to the bathroom. The bathroom is white, with a red mat on the floor, towels all red. _Freaky stylings_. He opens the mirrored bathroom cabinets, immediately finding a small bottle of Tylenol. _Should ease Waylon's pain a bit._ He pours a few pills into his palm, exiting the bathroom. He grabs a red solo cup from a stack on the counter, filling it with water from the sink. He walks back to the couch.

"Here," he says, holding the cup and the pills out to Waylon, "Should ease some of the pain."

"I don't need it, it's not that bad," Waylon says, holding a hand up.

"Just take them, Park, I'm missing the good parts."

Waylon mutters a bashful ' _Thank you_ ,' taking the cup and pills. The popcorn bowl is now empty, and Miles picks it up to wash it out and leaves it to dry on the drying rack. As he washes the dish, he feels a pair of eyes on him. When he turns around, he see's Waylon's head quickly snap back to the TV.

They make it to the part in the movie where the remaining survivors take shelter in a cave, finding glowing cave worms that they collect in jars, when Miles realizes that his and Waylon's positions had changed. Miles is no longer completely leaned into his side of the couch, sitting more into the center, legs spread. Waylon is leaned more to his left, towards Miles, body relaxed and legs apart. The two's knees almost touch. Billy hasn't spoken a word the entire time, engrossed in the movie.

For the first time in a long time, Vin Diesel has trouble keeping Miles' attention. Waylon scratches at his beard absently, Miles noticing a few scars along the back of his hand. His heart pulses slightly, staring. Waylon's hair is a little longer _(Grows pretty fast,_ ) beard full _(Should get some razors - hm, maybe not. Most of the photos floating around are him with a smooth jaw.)_ What Miles could see of his cheeks were fuller, less gaunt _(Gaining weight, that's good_.) The circles under his eyes are still dark _(He looks exhausted.)_

He still thinks about that kiss, the rough one from the night in his apartment. If he hadn't realized that Waylon was working through some strange, misplaced guilt, Miles would've loved to fall into it. He wishes he could revel in the memory. He would've loved to stay a few more days in his apartment, let Waylon sleep in his bed, let their smells mix. Miles felt guilty for his feelings, _But can you blame me?_ Waylon was gorgeous in a simple way, with a gentle smile. He was smart, honest, a devoted father. A devoted _husband_.

He can't stop himself from imagining him and Waylon, together, but it gets marred by reality. _He's dealing with his own trauma, and not in the healthiest ways, and he's married. Fuck, what sort of guy would I be to sleep with a woman's husband?_

 _OK, well, it's not like it would be the first time_. Miles is used to closeted men picking him up at a bar and taking him to a motel. They have their fun, and Miles is on his way, empty, fleeting moments of pleasure scattering his thoughts. But the way Waylon looks at him, speaks to him, Miles knows it would be different. It was maddening to even be in the same room as him, driving Miles up the wall.

He barely hears Waylon's voice pierce his thoughts.

"Miles?"

"Hm, yeah?" Miles snaps back to the presence. Waylon's eyes are wide, and they blink when Miles meets them.

"The movies over."

Looking at the DVR clock, it's just past midnight. Billy is staring at the rolling credits, head in his folded arms.

"It's late," Miles says, slow, "Maybe we should go to bed."

Neither man moves, each waiting for the other to stand first. Miles inhales sharply through his nose, taking initiative.

"Can you leave the TV on?" Billy asks, "It says they're playing _Avatar_ next."

Waylon leaves the radio on the table. Miles checks the locks of the front apartment door, then shuts the lights off in the living room and the kitchen, leading Waylon into the spare room Winona had shown them. He doesn't understand why his heart beats so harshly in his chest. He flicks the lights on, a soft yellow light reflecting off the white walls. The air mattress is reasonably sized, a queen, dark blue, pushed up against the far wall. At some point or another, Winona must have thrown in a few pillows and a blanket, as they're folded gently on top of the mattress. Miles quickly changes out of his jeans, keeping his shirt on, leaving him in his boxers. Waylon has already taken up the left side of the mattress, undoing his brace.

"How's the leg?"

"Fine," Waylon says, not looking up. He shoves his brace to the side.

The air is heavy, almost oppressive with words left unsaid. Miles tries to push through.

He checks the locks on the windows. _Sturdy_. Outside, the streets are empty, few people striding down the sidewalks. Miles had been in San Francisco before, for work, interviews, but never did much sight seeing. Never cared. He regretted it now, now that he knows the luxury of touring was a distant promise. He closes the thin curtains, shutting the door to the room, checking the lock. He repeats the motion, sliding between the window and the door a few times, until he's satisfied that they're locked, and that they're safe - that _Waylon_ is safe.

He shuts the lights. Pale moonlight casts over the room, over Waylon, turning his sandy hair silver, catching the whites of his eyes. Waylon had spread the blanket out, sitting up, staring. _Almost looks like he's waiting for me._

Carefully sitting down on the mattress, Miles lifts the covers, the two lying parallel. He stares up at the ceiling, nerves running hard. He can hear Waylon's breathing, shallow, but still awake.

"Can I ask you something?" Waylon asks, eventually.

"Sure," Miles answers, hands fists over the blankets.

"Do you have any...any weird dreams?"

Miles is afraid to turn over, because he knows Waylon is staring at him, so he keeps his eyes fixed on a light fixture in the ceiling.

"No. I don't think I'm able to dream anymore," he feels Waylon shift on the mattress, "I get...stuck. In this weird space, where the sky is all white and the ground is just...ash. Billy calls it a headspace, my inner sanctum, or whatever. I either go there, or everything goes black and I wake up the next morning," It was odd, describing everything out loud, like Miles shouldn't, but he wants to, recounting everything in a strange, airy way, "What about you?"

"They're not really dreams. More like nightmares."

"About what?" Miles could hear a pin drop from a mile away, the silence after is so quiet.

"About me, tied down in a chair, or on a table. People, um..." Waylon inhales sharply, "Torturing me."

"I'm sorry," Miles says, semi - speechless for the first time in a few weeks, "Any..." he coughs, "Any good dreams?"

A nervous pause, "Yeah."

"About what?"

Another beat, dangerous silence, "You."

Miles head snaps to the side. Waylon is bundled up in the red blanket, cheek pressed into the pillow, silhouetted by moonlight. Miles wets his lips, suddenly aware of how close they are.

"What happens in them?"

Even in the dark, Miles can see Waylon flush.

 _Fuck_.

Miles swallows, wanting to turn away from Waylon, but finds himself unable to move. _Want_ overtakes _Should_. Their eyes lock.

"Did you, uh...." Miles lets an anxious grin slip, "Did we kiss?"

Waylon lets out a low, nervous laugh, pulling the blanket tighter over his shoulders, "Yeah. Sometimes."

 _Stop_ , "Anything else? Besides kissing?"

"Yes," This time, Waylon's voice wavers.

 _Don't_ , "Did you like it?"

"Yes," _He sounds so breathless._

Miles turns onto his side, properly facing Waylon. _He's married, stop_ , "Can I kiss you?"

Waylon quickly tears the blanket down, grasping the sides of Miles' face and pulling him into a deep, exhausted kiss. Waylon trembles, but not in fear, like he did back in Miles' apartment. He shakes with want.

The kiss is gentle, but full of passion. _This is Waylon_. Waylon's shoulders loosen when Miles caresses him, his sigh muffled. _That's Waylon._ Waylon breaks away just to suck in a long, deep breath, before diving in again. _That's definitely Waylon_. Waylon sucks on Miles' bottom lip, and Miles groans, holding Waylon's hips. _Easy, easy._

Their groins brush together. Miles grunts, and Waylon's pushes their hips flush together. Waylon is stiff through his sweatpants.

Waylon rocks forward, " _Fuck_ \- "

He doesn't say anything else, as Miles catches his mouth in a kiss. Miles' tongue slips between his teeth, and the moan Waylon emits almost shocks Miles. Miles' head swims, Waylon's groans spurring his blood to run hot, every sensation pooling down into the bottom of his stomach.

They break. Waylon's eyes are wide, mouth open, his lips puffy. He wipes away drool with the back of his hand. Miles ducks to kiss Waylon again, but pauses.

Distantly, he hears a door open, and close. Loudly.

Waylon's mouth clamps shut. Miles puts up a single finger, holding it to his lips, then holds a hand up, his palm out. _Stay here_. Waylon nods.

Miles pulls off the covers, the cold air of the room goosebumping his skin. He stands, quietly and carefully crouch - walking to the door. He quickly scans the room, not seeing Billy. _If someone came in, Billy would've said something, wouldn't he?_ Miles slowly grabs the doorknob of the door, unlocking it, letting it creak open.

Winona stands outside the door, hand raised, as if she was going to knock. Miles exhales, standing straight.

"Hey," He says, low. _Of course it was Winona, who else would it've been?_ "How was your night out?"

"Fine," Winona responds, matching his tone, "Where's Waylon?"

"Sleeping," Miles lies.

Winona's eyebrows shoot up, "And you're...sleeping _with_ him?"

Sweating, Miles rubs his eyes, quickly making something up on the spot, "Yeah. Yeah, sorry, we've been travelling so much...close quarters, y'know? I didn't even think about it."

Winona nods, eyeing Miles, "I see. Well, um, I'm gonna...go to bed."

Miles waves at her, "Yeah, yeah, me too. Have a good night, Winona."

She's still staring at him as he gently closes the door. Turning around, Waylon is staring at him, eyes bulging out of his head. Miles exhales, rubbing his face.

 _Fuck_.


	35. Agreed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> warnings for: slight sexual content

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BBBBBBBBB ok.....chapter is a little short but I want, the next day to be a new chapter so wwwwww.....
> 
> also like im struggling to hold back all the good, fluffy romantic content here LIKE i dont want to reel it back (IM WRITING THIS FIC!) but in terms of developing a relationship and characters i have to take it slow :'( im so sad i just want to write Waylon and Miles kissing all the time eeee
> 
> *puts lips up to mic* can i get a mutual attraction in this chilis tonight!
> 
> also i have a few super early, smut - filled chapters that were alternate chapters + chapters I wrote contingent upon how everything played out. Most of them are just divergences of chapters ive already written, with a few alternate developements thrown in there, so some of the wording in the same, almost verbaetem. Would you guys like me to post them?
> 
> anyway, enjoy :o)

Waylon Park wishes he could slink away into a deep, dark hole, and stay there for the rest of his natural life. He can imagine coming home, Lisa finding out, hating him for it, wishing he just disappeared from their lives forever. _I can't believe I did that - that I said those things. I played along, not because I thought I needed to. I_ wanted _to._ Waylon wanted to melt into Miles, desperately, more than _anything_ he's ever wanted in his entire thirty years on this earth. Miles' kiss was attentive, _loving_ , almost. There was no harm, no hurt. Just Miles. _Everything_ that Waylon thought it would be.

And that is enough to rationalize what he's doing. _Lisa has been playing the field for all these fucking years. Playing_ me. The unfamiliar, wretched feeling of selfishness bubbles hot through Waylon, like acid. And it felt fucking _amazing_. Miles was handsome, and cared about him. _We're past teammates, we're friends. Friends with benefits isn't a stone's throw from Miles' usual companions, anyway._

And all the while, he's staring at Miles' back as he answers the door, at his broadness, thinking about how comfortably he fit in Miles' arms.

It was enough to forget about what Lisa did, and forget about what happened to him back in the asylum.

Miles wishes Winona a goodnight, and shuts the door. He groans, rubbing his face. Waylon stares at the tent in Miles' boxers, warmth flooding his head. He liked feeling Miles pressed against him, their hips fitting snugly together. Miles exhales, coming back to the mattress and laying down, throwing the blanket over them. He scooches closer to Waylon. Waylon attempts to kiss him again, hungry for more contact, but Miles turns his head, Waylon kissing a shaggy cheek.

"Let's not get crazy, Park," Miles whispers, low, almost sleepy, "Your sister's home, remember?"

 _Winona. Fuck_. Waylon pulls away, "Sorry," He had almost forgotten about her, completely lost in Miles and the warmth he exudes.

"Don't be sorry, we...," his eyes scan Waylon, and it shoots warmth through Waylon's body. Miles sighs, "Fuck, forget it. Come here, Park," Miles grabs Waylon by his shoulders, pulling him in closer. He kisses Waylon again.

Their beards catch and brush, scratching and kissing the only thing Waylon can hear. It's been years since he's kissed another man, and it's entirely alien, but familiar. Miles doesn't slip tongue into the kiss (Although Waylon wishes he _would,)_ but he's equally as passionate, holding Waylon by his waist.

Miles pulls back first, moonlight from the window behind lighting his usually dull eyes. His hands moves down from Waylon's waist to his thighs, grinding forward.

" _Fuck_ , Park," he almost growls, their teeth knocking together.

Head swimming, Waylon's arms hold themselves around Miles' shoulders, threading through his thick hair, pulling, slightly tilting his head up. Miles seems to like that, as his kisses turn slightly rougher. He pulls at the waistband of Waylon's pants.

That makes Waylon pause. He feels Miles pull the waistband of his sweats down, palming him through his boxer - briefs, and on instinct, Waylon jerks his hips back. Miles freezes.

"What's wrong?" He asks, clear, worried.

Waylon swallows. He liked the kissing, he liked feeling Miles through his clothes, rocking their hips together. But the thought of getting naked, _exposing_ himself, he....

Feeling his skin crawl, he sucks in a breath, "I don't want to, uh," Shame washes over him. _How do I say this? Fuck. Fuck!_

Miles' hands pull away. They pull Waylon's sweats back up, moving up his arms, "That's fine, Park," Miles says softly, "We don't have to."

 _No, no I want to, I swear I do, "_ Miles - "

Miles kisses the corner of his mouth, "It's fine," Waylon can feel the mark on Miles' chest radiate heat, "You're not feeling it, that's fine," he tucks his head into the crook of Waylon's neck, " _Fuck_ , way to blue ball me."

Ridden with guilt, Waylon breathes shaky.

"I'm kidding," Miles says, picking his head up, "It was a joke."

Waylon purses his lips, "Don't _joke_ about that."

Miles sits up, "Sorry," He rubs the back of his neck, "Didn't mean it in a nasty way. But if you don't want to do anything, fine with me," he scratches at his beard, "But, uh," he cracks a crooked grin, eyes off to the side, "I _did_ like kissing you."

He says it so softly, Waylon isn't even sure Miles actually said it. Waylon slides his hand up the back of Miles' shirt, pulling him back down. Miles leans back, tugging the blanket over them. He turns on his side, sliding his hands under Waylon's hoodie. His hands are warm as they glide over Waylon's back, Waylon feeling the exposed bone of Miles' fingers contrast with his soft fingertips. Waylon brushes his fingers through Miles' growing beard, rough against his palm. Miles' grins, the corners of his eyes creasing. He doesn't look happy, per say, but he radiates an energy of content.

He kisses Waylon softly, "Goodnight, Park."

 

 

  
-

 

 

  
Soft sunlight peaked through the thin window curtains, illuminating the room with the day. A ray crosses Miles' face. He stirs, one eye cracking. He sighs through his nose, attempting to turn over, but a weight on his chest stops him. Looking down, Waylon is half on his chest, half off, cheek against Miles' right pec and his arm thrown over Miles' torso. He's snoring gently, rising and falling with Miles' breathing. Miles scoffs at the spot of drool on his shirt from where Waylon's mouth was _. He looks so peaceful_.

Miles' mind wavers to the night before. His chest fluttered thinking of Waylon, gentle and impassioned, kissing him. Guilt subtly lines the memory. _Shit, I should've known better, slowed down a bit. I scared him off._ But Waylon didn't recoil from him. He pulled Miles back _in._ _But will he act the same now_?

_Fuck, I've ruined things. When the high comes down, he'll push me away, and we'll be left in an awkward limbo. They stopped before things got too intense. Probably for the best. Waylon will wake up, snap to his senses, and we'll pretend this never happened._

He hears Waylon sharply inhale. Waylon shifts with a groan, and stills with a sigh.

 _Goddamnit, he's cute._ Miles rubs the sleep from his eyes, looking over into the corner. Billy is sitting between their duffle bags, legs crossed, staring. Miles freezes.

"Hey," Miles says, "Good morning."

Billy grins, "You two look comfortable."

"Not as comfortable as it looks, he's _heavy_ ," Miles whispers, even though Waylon is as light as a feather, and he could lift Waylon easily without breaking a sweat if he wanted to, "Where's Winona?"

"Work," Billy says, "It's eight - fifteen. Do you want me to wake Waylon up?"

Miles looks down at the sleeping man on his chest, "No, no, let him sleep. He needs it."

Billy's head cocks to his side, "Whatever you say, Upshur. Winona was nice enough to leave the TV on for me, so I'm going to watch the news. I'll let you know if anything interesting pops up," He dissipates, smoke filtering out from under the doorway.

Miles can't tell if Billy knows about last night or not.

He lays there for another thirty minutes, staring at Waylon. The light turned Waylon's sandy hair gold, his eyelashes tipping into white, sunlight kissing his nose. _Sleeping like there's nothing to worry about_. Eventually, he feels Waylon stir on top of him. Waylon groans, eyes fluttering open.

"Mornin', Sleeping Beauty," Miles says softly. Waylon picks his head up, wiping away drool.

Their eyes meet, and Waylon's eyes pop wider, "Sorry - " He starts, shooting up.

Miles rises with him, "You're fine," He brushes a hand over Waylon's beard, coaxing him back down, "You're fine."

Waylon eases down onto Miles' chest with an exhausted sigh.

"That's it. Easy, Park, you just woke up. No need to set the alarms off just yet."

Waylon's chin digs into Miles' chest, "Mhm. What time is it?"

"Eight - forty - five, maybe. Billy said Winona went to work."

Waylon rolls off of Miles, laying on his back, "Christ, I slept like a rock."

Miles shifts onto his side, leaning his cheek into his palm, "Any weird dreams this time?"

"No. You?"

"No."

Neither of them talk about what happened last night. They get up, and Miles puts on an electric coffee pot tucked into the corner of the the kitchen - bright red, like the rest of Winona's apartment. They shower, brush their teeth. Billy is sitting cross - legged on the couch, absorbed by the weather report. The longer the silence stretches, the more Miles is sure that what they did wasn't going to happen a second time. Even so, as he waits for the water to boil, Miles could feel the attraction hanging heavy in the air, like a curtain. He notices the constant glances Waylon throws him, can almost feel the beat of his heart from across the room, only a single table between them to stop any action from occurring.

That fucking _scared_ Miles. He's thought about him and Waylon. Together. Just a tad. Just enough to make what they did dangerous. God knows that Waylon is handsome as Hell, with a kind heart that makes Miles do double - takes in Waylon's direction. However, Miles knows best is that affairs of the heart always lead to heartbreak.

Or _worse_.

_He's married. He's just desperate. He loves his wife, and his kids. I'm just another stress reliever. A coping mechanism. Something he'll use up until this blows over. Then he can go back to being a loving father and husband, and I'll be...._

A brush against his hip jolts Miles out of his thoughts. With one hand on Miles, Waylon reaches over to open a cabinet above their heads, grabbing two white cups out.

Miles raids the fridge for eggs, an appetite escaping him ( _I don't think it's Billy this time_ ,) and makes Waylon breakfast. When he places the plate down on the table, his mouth quirks into a small grin when he sees Waylon staring at him. With sleep still holding a firm grasp onto him, Waylon's eyes droop and his chin rests in his palm. His hair sticks at odd angles, circles of his eyes deep.

"Thank you," Waylon says as Miles sits down at the table.

 _He still eats like a rabid dog_ , Miles notes as he watches Waylon devour his breakfast. As he eats, Miles' mind races. _Dammit, I don't even know if he likes men. For all I know, I could just be an experiment - wouldn't be the first - or maybe he's just desperate for contact, no matter_ who _it is._

But the way Waylon spoke to him last night...it didn't _feel_ like an attraction of convenience.

Waylon's hand reaches across the table to grab Miles', forcing him out of his thoughts. Waylon gives his hand a squeeze, thumbing over Miles' missing ring finger.

"Hey," Waylon says, voice low, so low in fact Miles has to lean in and ask him to repeat what he said, "I think we should talk."

 _Fucking_ finally _, the tension was killing me_ , "Yeah, we should."

Waylon leans back into his seat, "I'm sorry it didn't go any farther - "

"Don't ever think you have to do anything for me, Park," and Miles says it so quickly, he's not sure the words that came out of his mouth were plain English, "You didn't want to. I'm not gonna hold it over your head."

Waylon looks down into his coffee cup, "No, I...I _wanted_ to, believe me," he cracks a nervous smile, "But...dammit, I don't want to sound so formal about it, but the bare touching...shit, I'm fucking this up - "

Realization dawns on Miles, eyebrows shooting up, "I think I understand," Miles says, "You liked the," he soundlessly claps his hands, rubbing them together it "The grinding."

"Yeah," and a soft flush creeps up on Waylon's neck, "I didn't want to be..." he trails off, shaking his head. Miles can feel shame roll off of him in waves.

"Naked," Miles finishes. The pieces fit together in Miles' mind. _With the trauma Waylon experienced, I'm not surprised he's got some aversion to physical contact._

"Yeah, yeah. But, uh," Waylon laughs weakly, leaning his cheek into his palm, partially covering his right eye, "I did want to. I did."

 _Did_. Disappointment seeps into Miles. He watches Waylon carefully.

"Jesus," Waylon breathes an airy laugh, "I haven't been kissed like that in a long time."

Miles wets his lips, shrugging, "We could do it again, cut that time in half."

Waylon laughs louder this time, but catches himself, "Maybe later."

The two enjoy their coffees in silence.

 

 

  
-

 

 

  
They talk a little later, outside in the bright and warm sun. Miles agrees to keep things casual, which eases Waylon.

"Nothing serious? I can do that," Miles said, "Might be hard to avoid everything with Billy around, but I can keep things on the down - low," he lights a smoke, and his hand crawls up the back of Waylon's neck, hot on his skin. He ruffles Waylon's hair, "We work on your time, Park, you understand? What we do is up to you."

What Waylon appreciates the most is that Miles doesn't try to convince or insist him to change his mind. _He understands. He knows me, just as well as I know him._

The rest of the day is uneventful. Waylon wants to go for a walk, but decides it's safer to just stay inside. They stay in the living room most of the day, watching the news. They sit a little closer than usual, and soon enough Miles has pulled Waylon's legs over his thighs, so Waylon is semi - sitting in his lap. Waylon thinks of kissing him a few times, but given that he has no idea where Billy is at the moment, Waylon doesn't attempt anything.

Winona is back at four, takeout bags tucked under her arms. Waylon watches Miles' holds the door open for her, bringing out his wallet.

"Oh, no," Winona insists, setting the bags on the table, "You already paid for my night out last night."

"How was that anyway, Winnie?" Waylon asks, pulling out a chair for her.

Winona sits, "I had a good time. We danced, I didn't drink much, but my girlfriend did, and she got like _destroyed_ so I had to walk her home. But it was fun, yeah."

"How was work?"

"Fine, but Susie kept asking me if I was alright _all_ day."

"Think she knows anything?" Miles asks as he pulls a few plates from the cabinet.

"If she's suspicious, she's not letting on. How's, um...." to jerks a thumb to the radio on the counter, " _You - know - who?_ "

" _He - Who - Must - Not - Be - Named_ ," Billy jokes, "I'm fine. Nothing new on the news to report, which worries me."

"Why worried?" Waylon asks.

"What's worse than extreme activity, is silence. Silence means planning, or cooperating with other parties."

"I mean, Murkoff can't be _happy_ with all the shit Blackjaw is pulling. It's like Marshal Law out there," Winona says, "Nothing new from the station, either, just more reports of Blackjaw moving from the East Coast to here."

Dread pools in the bottom of Waylon's stomach, "That means more forces here."

"Hm," Miles says, placing plates down, "We should head East," he portions out some of the meal.

Winona crosses her arms, one hand on her chin.

"Uh, oh," Waylon says, "She's thinking."

"If they're headed here," Winona says after a moment of pondering, "I could spread a rumor to Susie about a friend seeing you guys somewhere else."

Waylon grins, "Finally, using some of that college education to your advantage."

"We're staying more South," Billy says, "You could say we were more North."

Miles nods "Yeah, out by Oregon - "

Waylon points to Miles, "So that they think we're crossing the border North!"

"Exactly!"

"Susie expects a call from you any day," Winona says, "I could tell her you called yesterday. Say that you wanted to say goodbye to me before you crossed the border into Canada."

Miles hums, "I don't know. Susie made it sound like she didn't want us to be found."

Winona leans back into her chair, "What if we......."

The four spitball and discuss for what Waylon feels is hours. Billy still thinks it's a good idea to fake their location. Miles thinks it's better to just lay low and travel East, and Winona and Waylon want to tell Susie that Waylon called, and say that they're crossing into Canada. Eventually, they get sidetracked, and Miles starts asking about Winona about school, and it snowballs into Waylon fake - yelling at Winona for drinking so much.

It's warm and friendly, and Waylon is suddenly transported back to the holidays, when the he and Winona met up for a Christmas party back at their parents home. It was the same feeling, full of reminiscing and laughter, except this time Miles is sitting at the table. Seeing Miles joke and play with his sister, almost like Miles belonged there the entire time, stirred a dangerous feeling in Waylon's chest that he quickly pushes away.

They clear the table, Miles and Waylon insisting on cleaning up. Winona says she's going to do some homework, denying any tea or dessert Miles offered her.

"Maybe later," Winona tells him. She goes into her room, and shuts the door.

Waylon is washing dishes when he feels Miles come up behind him. Injured hands hold his hips, and he feels Miles plant a kiss in the space where his neck met his spine, through his shirt. His body goes warm, and he quickly finishes washing the plates, placing them on the drying rack. He quickly turns around, excitedly grabbing Miles' face and kissing him.

"I've been waiting to do that all morning," Waylon says as he breaks away, looking down on Miles, thumbing over his beard. Strangely enough, as Waylon is looking into Miles' eyes, he can't see his reflection in Miles' pupils.

"I've been waiting for _you_ to do that all morning," Miles says back to him with a smirk. His hands move down to Waylon's hips, steering him back against the edge of the sink. He ducks his head to kiss Waylon's neck.

Waylon lifts his chin as Miles' beard scratches pleasantly on his skin. Miles pushes his hips into Waylon's, sucking a mark on Waylon's collarbone. Waylon spreads his legs, one of Miles' knees pressing against his groin. Waylon grins, letting his eyes wander to the bright red couch. _Winona's_ bright red couch. His face falls.

" _Wait_ \- "

Miles stops. He peels back, holding Waylon's hips and standing straight.

"Not while Winona's here," Waylon says, shame flooding over him. _God, can't believe we were necking like a couple of horny teenagers, with my sister in the next fucking room_! His skin crawls, and Miles' hands are suddenly too hot on his hips. Miles' hands lift off, his touches still leaving a lingering burn.

"Whatever you wanna do, Park," he says, planting a kiss, sharp as glass, to Waylon's collar, making him flinch.

Waylon puts on the tea kettle - silver and red - trying to will away the pain he feels. _I want this, I want_ him _. How do I stop feeling like this?_ At times, Waylon felt almost lost in his own pain, bad memories resurfacing, carving away a fleshy hole in his head to fuck open. Dread and sorrow take their usual places in Waylon's gut, pulling him which way.

Winona comes back out of her room with a triumphant smile just as the kettle boils. Waylon fills up a mug, placing in two teabags, like Winona always had back home. As he waits for her tea to steep, a slight static in his head causes him to look up.

Through the window, he sees the reflection of the rotten - gummed Eddie Gluskin stare back at him, form standing behind. Waylon twists around with a frightened yelp, knocking over Winona's mug. It rolls off of the counter, cracking on her floor. Winona shoots up from her seat. Gluskin is gone.

"Whoah! Way, what happened?"

"I uh - " Waylon stutters, shaking his head, mouth opening and closing as he tries to come up with an explanation, "I don't know, I just meant to turn around and - " he stops Winona as she starts to bend down, "Don't, don't I've got it," he looks up, seeing Miles standing at the table.

"Are you sure?"

"I've got it," Waylon insists, grabbing a few paper towels. The cup broke cleanly, just the handle had been snapped off, but he carefully plots around the boiling water. His leg throbs in pain. As he cleans up, he screams at himself in his head. _Idiot, idiot. He's dead, he's dead, he's dead, you saw his body, he's dead_. Winona pulls the top off of her garbage can, Waylon depositing the wet towels and the mug.

"Sorry about your cup, Winnie," Waylon says. He sighs through his nose, ignoring the shake in his hands. Winona playfully punches him in the arm.

"Ah, don't feel bad. It's just a cup," she glances behind her, at Miles, "Anything good on TV? How about a movie?"

"They're playing _Thor_ in a few minutes," Miles says, crossing his arms. Waylon pretends he doesn't see the worried look Miles throws him.

Winona grins, "Oh, Way _loves_ those geeky superhero movies."

Miles scoffs, "They aren't really _geeky_. The Avengers have gone mainstream, hard to find someone who hasn't seen at least one Marvel movie."

"Oh, don't tell me you're a hyper - nerd like my brother here."

"Nah, but I have seen all of them."

"Marvel movies are hard to watch," Billy says distantly through the radio, "Too much going on at once."

Waylon shuffles to the couch, Winona bringing him a cup of tea.

"So, Park," Miles says, reclining back into the couch on Waylon's left, "You're a - " Miles puts up air quotes, " _Hyper - nerd._ "

Waylon laughs, Winona butting in as she sits on Waylon's right, "Oh, yeah, a _huge_ fuckin' nerd. He used to play _Dungeons & Dragons_ with his friends in our basement on Friday nights."

Waylon grins, "Hey, I had fun!" Waylon remembers those nights fondly, him and his friends battling goblins and skeletons in a haunted castle, spending hours putting together a campaign for them. It was fun, and Waylon's parents didn't mind, since it kept Waylon home and out of trouble.

"Never played, but a friend of mine used to play in high school with his wife," Miles says, "Too much thinking for me."

The three chat through the movie, barely paying attention as Chris Hemsworth flexes onscreen. Waylon learns that Miles used to be a hard partier, who spent his time bouncing from concert - to - concert, getting drunk and doing what he pleased. Waylon is almost jealous, the way Miles recants everything with vigor and nostalgia. Waylon was a quiet teenager, who kept himself in line and out of trouble. Waylon regretted not doing anything note - worthy in his time in highschool, unlike Winona, who was a bright beacon and attracted attention wherever she went.

They move on from highschool, to college.

"Oh my God, this movie reminds me of that guy you dated in college, Way, remember? You know, the dude who kinda looked like Thor?"

Waylon groans, " _Oh_ , don't remind me."

"What was his name? Ted?"

" _Tim._ Tim Darby," Waylon's third boyfriend since highschool - and his last, since he met Lisa. Tim was nice, with blonde hair he let grow out long out to his waist, "He was nice."

"Why'd you breakup?" Billy asks.

"He was too busy smoking pot to really hang out. I didn't really like smoking, and that was all he seemed to want to do."

Miles whistles, "Wow, a real heartbreaker there, Park."

Waylon scoffs, ignoring the blush that creeps up his neck.

It's around nine when the movie ends. Winona yawns, saying she's going to start a paper for school, bidding the two a goodnight and swifting off to bed. Waylon stretches out on the couch, his legs over Miles' lap again. As they watch a rerun of _Guardians of the Galaxy_ , Miles trails his hands over Waylon's legs.

"You feelin' alright, Way?" Miles asks.

"I'm fine," Waylon replies. Miles only called him by his first name a handful of times, the nickname making his chest flip. Miles plays with the bottom of Waylon's sweats.

"How's the leg?"

"Fine."

"What happened that made you drop that mug?"

Waylon exhales through his nose, "I just dropped it."

Miles cuffs the bottom of Waylon's left pant leg, pulling it up and over Waylon's knee. Being inside all day, Waylon didn't bother putting his brace on. He keeps his crutch a little close, seeing it leaning against the couch, but otherwise didn't do anything that warranted the extra help.

"That yell didn't sound like you just dropped it," Miles says, thumbing over Waylon's leg scars, "What'd you see?"

Miles' question isn't a command, like if Waylon doesn't say, he's letting Miles' down. It's patient, a tone that pries just enough to let a little light into a dark cavern, instead of blinding Waylon into submission and panic. Miles' fingers dip into the fleshy dent in Waylon's thigh, pressing lightly.

"I saw...Gluskin. Standing in the kitchen, behind me," Miles' fingers press harder, rolling the muscle. Waylon relaxes, leaning more into the couch, "I just....I know he's dead, I _know_ , but he fucking haunts me. They all do."

Miles doesn't respond, and it takes Waylon a few seconds to realize Miles is listening, _waiting_. Waylon clears his throat, continuing.

"I can't stop going back there. In my dreams, out here. Fuck me, I'll be doing something normal, and all of a sudden the room has changed," There's a subtle tremble in his voice, "It's not always so bad, though. Sometimes it's just lights, or a shadow, or something. What's most important is that I know they can't hurt me, and that they aren't real."

Miles nods, keeping his eyes on Waylon's leg as he massages the muscle, gently and carefully. Waylon's eyes flit over Miles' form, before he sits up more to stroke a hand through Miles' beard.

"You need a shave," Waylon says.

Miles' lips quirk, "I thought about that. Maybe tomorrow we could go out, get some razors. We still need to get rid of those cassettes."

The two turn in for the night, shutting off the TV and the lights of the apartment.

Billy's radio turns on, "I'm going to people watch tonight, I think," Billy says, "I've never been to San Francisco. I wonder what kind of people I'll see."

Miles and Waylon exchange a puzzled look, but mutter their acknowledgments, wishing Billy a goodnight. Waylon knocks on Winona's door, giving her a hug and a kiss on the forehead goodnight.

"Are you working tomorrow?" Waylon asks her.

"Yeah, why?"

"Well, me and Miles have these cassette tapes that we need to get rid of, and I wanted to know the address of that one vintage shop you told me about was around here."

Winona's eyebrows crease, a confused grin on her face, "You guys are on the run, but saved a box of old tapes?"

Waylon scoffs, "We just picked them up from Miles' old place, thought we could sell them."

"Can I see them?" she asks.

Miles ducks into their room, coming back with the box of tapes. Winona's eyes go wide, and she almost hungrily takes the box.

"Are you even old enough to know what these are?" Waylon jokes.

His sister laughs, "I know what cassettes are! Let me take a look at these. You'll get ripped off at the shop around the corner, but I think I know someone who'd pay a good price for them."

"If you could find a buyer, that'd be amazing," Miles says, "You can keep half of what you make from them."

" _Psh_ , don't worry about it. I'll see what I can do about 'em, though."

"I have another favor to ask," Miles says, reaching into his pocket. Waylon didn't know what to expect, but he certainly didn't expect Miles to pull out an old Polaroid camera, "Do you know a place that can develop film around here?"

"Of _course_! My girlfriend is a photography major," she takes the camera from Miles' hand, "I'll make sure it gets developed. What's on it?"

Miles shrugs, "Who knows. I found it back at my place, but I didn't remember where it was from."

Winona makes a face, "It's not, like, _dirty_ pictures, is it? Because I don't feel like handing my girlfriend a camera full of cooch - wait, maybe she _would_ like that - "

" _Winona_!" Waylon scolds.

Miles chuckles, "If there are any dirty photos on there, you can keep them."

"Awesome. I'll take these with me when I leave the apartment in the morning."

"I can't thank you enough for this."

Winona puts Miles' camera in the box, waving her hand, "Don't worry about it. I've got you covered."

The three bid each other a goodnight, and turn in for the night.

"We should get some laundry done," Waylon says as he strips off his t - shirt, "I'm running out of shirts," he digs through his duffle, trying to find a clean shirt that wasn't stained or already worn. He feels a tap on his shoulder, looking up to see Miles holding out a shirt for him. Waylon takes it, holding it up in the light. It's a faded band t - shirt, with the iconic face of Nirvana on the front, "I don't think I'll fit in any of your shirts, Miles."

"Might be a little short on you, Park, but I think you'll fit just fine," Miles says, stripped down into his boxers and a black tank top.

Waylon puts on Miles' shirt. It's a little short, exposing the V of his hips, the hem ending at his belly button, but the arms and neck fit fine. Unconsciously, he brings the chest of the shirt up, inhaling Miles' natural scent. He turns, seeing Miles' staring at him with a mischievous grin. Miles quickly looks down, settling under the covers. Waylon flips the light off, soft moonlight filling the room. He lays next to Miles, who quickly welcomes Waylon into his arms.

For the first time in the days he's escaped Mount Massive, Waylon truly feels safe.


	36. Night Terrors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for: physical/child abuse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> teehee :)
> 
> this chapter is a little boring but it's important to me so :) *throws in billy lore*
> 
> enjoy ty for reading :)

**" _I thought you were going to people watch_?" Miles asks.**

**"I tried. This is a city of millions, but tonight, there's not a soul in sight."**

**The headspace is endless white sky, endless black ground. Billy sits on the edge, kicking his feet and catching ash with his hands. Miles looks down, the bottom even farther than he remembered. _Would I wake up if I jumped?_ Miles inhales burning air, the smell of smoke heavy, yet it doesn't hinder his breathing. He looks to his right, the dead, twisted tree no longer there _. I wonder what that was. A small part of Billy, maybe? A little space he made for himself here?_**

**Billy catches one flake in the air, ash slipping through his fingertips, " How long do you think we'll be staying?" he asks, "With Winona? She's nice, but we don't have the income to support two grown men and a teenager."**

**Miles scoffs, "Teenager _. You're barely older than her_ ," he sits down next to Billy, letting his feet dangle over the edge, " _Just a few months over twenty three."_**

**" Only in body," he says, "As in the form I project. I am nineteen, in mind."**

**_"You were nineteen when you went into the Engine. Life may have stopped for you, but that didn't mean you stopped aging_."**

**Billy keeps his head straight, " There are a lot of things I cannot explain. Most of what I know is factual speculation and thinking, what I could glance from documents over the shoulder of a technician. But one thing I know is that time in that asylum seemed to stop," Billy's hands fall to his thighs, clenching, unclenching, "The moment those images flashed, you could feel the world halt in it's steps. Then you feel the changes it causes. The brain twists itself, like a rabid dog leaping about to snap it's own spine to end it's pain. It degenerates, it festers, but there's no regression, or progression. You're simply trapped in the same form you were."**

**And Miles thinks of Waylon, almost immediately, " _Well, you two aren't trapped there anymore. You're free_."**

**" Maybe physically. But we'll never forget it."**

**Miles kicks a leg out, " _The more we talk about that shit, the more I'm glad you destroyed that fucking place. Wish I was there to see it."_**

**" You would have been electrocuted from the explosions inside," Billy says, turning his head with a grin.**

**_"Ah. Prefer your hosts rare, not crispy?_ "**

**Billy laughs, baring grey teeth.**

**Miles opens his mouth to crack another joke, but is quickly cut off by a strange noise. Billy must have noticed, too, as his face falls. The noise is a soft buzzing, like the hum of snow on a television.**

**_"What is that_?" Miles asks, his voice droned as the noise becomes louder and louder. He puts a finger up, hearing the buzz warp. Worst were being spoken, muttered and muffled, nonsense Miles couldn't make out. It grows deafening, filling the empty silence of the headspace, digging into the back of Miles' head like steel claws.**

**Billy erupts into dust, and the cliff shakes. The world jerks onto it's side, throwing Miles off of the cliff. He yells, plummeting into the dark sea below.**

Miles sits up on the air mattress, Waylon screaming next to him.

 

 

  
-

 

 

 

"I don't want to talk about it," Waylon insists, curled into the corner of the room, "Leave me alone."

"It was just a nightmare, Park," Miles says softly, "You're fine. Come back to bed."

Miles didn't expect to be woken up at 3 AM by screaming, but he certainly didn't expect to have to wrestle with Waylon as he thrashed and yelled in his sleep. Winona came bursting in the door quickly, yelling, with a lacrosse stick in her hand. It took Miles a few minutes and a few harsh words, but eventually Miles was able to talk both Parks down. He could see Billy in the corner of his eye, staring, watching as this chaos unfolded.

When Waylon finally snapped out of whatever psychosis he was in, jolting awake, he looked....

 _Fuck, I don't even want to think about it_. Waylon looked broken.

Worse than broken, he looked _embarrassed_.

Miles waves a hand, "C'mon, Park. It's over now. I'm here - "

Winona bursts back into the room with a cup of water. She goes to give it to Waylon in his corner, but he raises a hand.

"I don't need anything. I don't want it."

"Waylon - "

" _Leave me alone_!"

Waylon's pained yell shakes the glass of the windows.

Winona's face twists, and in the light Miles could see she's holding back tears. She bends down, placing the cup on the floor. She turns around, grabbing Miles by his arm. He stands up without resisting, hurriedly walking with Winona to the living room. She almost throws him onto the couch, but Miles sits down without issue.

"What the _fuck_ was that?" She demands.

"I don't know," Miles answers, hands out and open, "I don't know. One minute I'm sleeping, the next he's screaming and rolling around next to me - "

"You don't know what happened?" Winona's hands rest on her hips.

"No, I don't fucking know what happened! He had a nightmare! He's been having them since he fucking got out of Mount Massive!" Miles can't fight the crack in his voice. Waylon told him about nightmares, but night terrors? _Goddamnit_. Miles holds his head in his hands, anger pulsing with his blood _. He was fucking....fuck, he was_ fighting _me. He didn't even know who I was._ Miles had to hold Waylon down, pinning Waylon's wrists to his chest so he wouldn't hurt himself. Waylon was kicking, screaming, fighting for his fucking _life_. _Who did he think I was?_ Miles can't stop seeing Waylon's face, how horrified he looked.

Through the slots of his fingers, he see's Winona pace her living room. She's talking to herself, trembling, like Waylon did when he was nervous or scared. She runs her hands through her short hair, pulling, letting out a sob, " _Christ_."

 _She looks ready to collapse_. Miles sits up, waving her over, moving over from his spot on the couch. Winona slings herself down on the cushions.

"God...I don't know how to help him," she whimpers, "I don't know what to do! I - I don't know what he needs - "

"He just needs to wind down," Miles says quietly, "Time alone, some space. We'll give him a few minutes, try to get him a drink. It was a night terror, but it'll pass. He'll wake up tomorrow right as rain, don't worry," _Am I trying to convince her, or myself?_

"That's not what I mean," Winona says, and Miles can hear the subtle terror in her voice, "You've been with him for a couple days. I've known him my whole fucking life," she looks at Miles, her head shaking, eyes and nose running, "He's all fucked up. He's.... _different_. H - He's irritable, and he's just so fucking quiet, like he needs permission to speak. I can't even _remember_ the last time he yelled at me."

Miles can only offer her a shake of his head, and a comforting pat on her back, "I'm sorry."

"I don't want him to leave," Winona cries, "I want him to stay _here_ , where I'll know he'll be. I can't protect him if he's out there."

Staring at Winona, it was almost like looking in a mirror. Miles remembers when he was six, seven, eight years old, and his mom would leave him for another binge. He would beg her to stay home. She always left. Did Winona feel the same when Waylon went MIA, then popped up here? Knowing that he'll have to leave, did she feel the same abandonment, worthlessness, and powerlessness about her brother that Miles felt every time his mom left?

Miles moves his hand to her shoulder, "I know, I know."

Winona crumbles, and wraps her arms around Miles. He welcomes her, and she buries her face in his chest, letting out a loud sob. _She's too young to be dealing with this. We have to leave, no question, but I don't know if we can just yet. I said a few days. Maybe I can make it a week or more. Whatever time they need, I'll give them._

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

Waylon feels cold on his forehead, running down his arms. He clutches Billy's radio tight in one hand. Billy had knocked it out of Miles' duffle, dragging it across the carpet towards him. Waylon needed something to hold onto, anything to keep him grounded, for he was afraid he would float away and leave his body behind.

 _Maybe that would be better_. He wishes he were somewhere else, someone else.

He feels sick, stomach churning, too tight in his own skin. I don't belong in this body. He scratches at his arm with his free hand, wishing he was anywhere else.

"It was just a terror. You're safe now," Billy's voice tips into a sing - song tone, "No more bad dreams."

Waylon bites down an angry retort _. I'm fucking horrible. I don't deserve to be talked to by anyone. I'm sick, I'm sick, I'm sick._ He remembers Miles, staring at him, his eyes welling, like Waylon had seen back in the bathroom of his home. He looked scared. _Was he was scared of me? Did I hurt him? Christ, if I hurt him I....fuck. Fuck!_ Waylon tosses the radio away. It bounces off the wall with a hollow sound. The cold on his body retracts.

"It's alright," Billy says, voice growing as he turns the volume dial up, "It's over now. You're safe."

_Safe? I'm not safe, I'll never be safe. I'm barely safe to be around -_

"You might be dehydrated," Billy says, "Why don't you have some water. You'll feel better."

"I don't want it," Waylon croaks, "Leave me alone," he curls more into himself, legs held tight against his chest. _Leave me here. Let me rot._

Feeling a static in his head, Waylon slaps his cheeks, digging his palms into his forehead. _Stop, stop, stop. stop, leave me alone._ He glances to the side, seeing the glass carefully lift off the ground by a centimeter, and float closer to him. It lands a few inches away from his feet, water threatening to tip from the edge as it touches carpet, catching silver light of the moon outside.

"Dehydration, can cause night terrors. I think you'll feel better, even a little bit, if you have a drink."

Waylon feels cold caress his face, like someone was holding his cheeks. Waylon sighs, then takes the glass. He takes a small sip, the burn in his throat subsiding somewhat. Then he takes a second, longer sip, gulping down cool water. The glass empties, and Waylon sucks in air, heaving. The glass falls from his hand, landing softly on the carpet.

"See?" Billy says, "Dehydrated."

Rubbing at his face, wiping sleep from his eyes and sweat from his forehead, Waylon stands. Suddenly lightheaded, he steadies himself on the window.

"Maybe you should - "

"I'm fine," Waylon shakes the black spots that dance in his vision. His body aches, and his wrists still throb from Miles' grip _. He didn't have a choice. I would've hurt him_. His leg pulses painfully. _Merry Hell, what was I thinking?_ He slides his hand off the window, meandering his way into the hallway.

He takes an immediate left, opening the door and flicking on the lights of the bathroom. He groans at the bright white that assaults his senses, and he quickly flicks them back off. The covers of the bathroom window only lets in a few slivers of moonlight. Waylon crosses the bathroom, carefully separating the wooden blinds. The bright silver light of the moon fills the bathroom, illuminating the white tiled floor. Waylon relaxes in the glow. He leans over the vanity, flipping on the sink. He cups his hands, drinking from the tap. He splashes cool water on his face, adrenaline ebbing away, becoming a chill on his skin.

He tries to remember his nightmare. Nothing comes to memory, the problem that caused this sudden mess and the disturbance of everyone's sleep was a black, jagged spot in Waylon's head.

Waylon looks up into the mirror. His face is scratched out. _Who did this to her mirror? It wasn't here this morning_. He touches the space where his face would be in the reflection, feeling the indents of the scratches. _Did I.....did I do this? Maybe not tonight, but earlier, without realizing it?_ His gaze wanders down.

Miles' t - shirt is fairly short on him, wide at the chest and armpits. Waylon watches the reflection wrinkle when he grabs the shirt by the front. Waylon fight back tears. _He hates me. I ruined this....whatever this was we tried to have._

 _What the Merry - fucking - Hell am I talking about? There's no_ we _. There's no '_ this _' to ruin. There isn't, and there's not going to be._ Waylon tugs the shirt off and over his head, throwing it to the ground. _What am I doing? He slaps his cheeks, as if that would put his mind straight and square again. Putting on his fucking shirts, letting him touch me, kiss me. Am I fucking insane?_

"Have I completely lost my fucking _mind_?"

 

 

  
-

 

 

  
The apartment seems the shake when they hear Waylon yelling. Winona breaks away. She and Miles both share worried glances, and spring up from the couch.

Billy is standing in front of the bathroom. Winona runs straight through him, bursting into the spare room. Billy steps to the side, Miles taking his place in the doorway of the bathroom.

Waylon is sitting shirtless on the toilet, his head in his hands, face covered.

"Park?"

Winona slides into Miles' side, nearly barrelling into him, but Miles catches her by her shoulder, keeping her upright.

"What're you doing, Way?" She asks quietly, sniffing. Waylon doesn't respond.

Miles looks down at the tiled floor, seeing the crumpled shirt he'd given Waylon. He bends down, reaching over the threshold of the bathroom, picking the shirt up.

"There doesn't happen to be a 24 - hour laundromat around, is there?" he asks, folding the shirt.

Winona stares at him like he's a rabid dog, "Are you serious?"

With his hand on her shoulder, Miles steers Winona back into the hallway, out of sight from the open doorway.

"He needs time to diffuse," Miles says gently, holding the shirt close to his chest, "Some water, a quiet place to sit, like right now. This is probably gonna be more common than we'd like, so we have to treat everything like it's normal."

Winona narrows her eyes, but relaxes, standing straight, "Right. If we act like this is odd and scary, he'll shut down."

"Right. Now, we need to do some laundry, so I'm gonna go ahead and get out of your hair for an hour, leave Waylon here to calm down.

Winona nods, "There a 24 - hour place a few blocks down. Just follow the street West. I have a few detergent pods I can throw your way, too, if you need them."

"Thanks. Hopefully when I come back, Waylon will want to talk."

Winona crosses her arms, "I hope so.

 

 

 

-

 

 

The laundry is a quick deal. Miles is in and out in an hour. He takes a few minutes to fold the clothing, placing it all carefully into his duffle, which he'd emptied of all contents. Billy watched the cycles spin, like he had back when they visited the Langermanns.

"You know," Billy begins, walking in stride with Miles down the sidewalk, "I used to have night terrors as a child. I used to dream of being chased by wild dogs, and falling off the edges of cliffs."

"Sounds terrible," Miles says, duffle slung over his shoulder, head turning to Billy every few seconds. In the light of the moon, Billy seemed to glow.

"They would begin with me, at the edge of a great forest, trees black. I would hear a terrible, terrible noise, the sound of meat tearing and crunching. I would follow the sounds, curious," Billy wisps away, stepping into the streetlights, "I would come to a grisly sight of wild canines - the type would change, sometimes they were labradors, or wolves or coyotes, sometimes something else entirely - and they would be feeding on the corpse of a deer."

Billy disappears as Miles passes each streetlight, reappearing at the next, "I would step on a twig, and they would hear, and their ghastly heads would turn. They would growl, and give chase, and I would run as fast as I could. I would run, and run, and run, until I came to the edge of a cliff. Nowhere to go, the dogs would pressure me back, off of the side of the cliff. I never liked dogs much after so many of those terrors, avoided them where I could."

"Scary," Miles tells him, remembering Chrissy's dog, and how he acted when Miles was around. _The old guy never so much as growled at me. Another side effect, I guess. Natural dog - repellent._

"I would wake up, screaming, and \- "

Billy stops himself.

"And what?"

"I would wake up, screaming," Winona's apartment complex comes into their views, Billy dusting ahead.

"What would happen after you woke up, Hope?" Miles asks, vividly aware of Billy avoiding his questions.

Billy is sitting on the front steps of the complex, lips tight, knees together.

"If it's embarrassing, you don't have to talk about it," Miles says, "But I won't tell Waylon. I promise," Miles approaches the buzzer to be let in, hitting Winona's apartment button.

Billy cocks his head, gaze averted, pondering. He opens his mouth, "It's only fair," he says to himself. Miles stares, curiously.

After a few seconds, Billy takes a deep breath, playing with his fingers and looking down at the ground, "After I would wake up, screaming, my mother would soon wake after. She'd yell and scream about me waking her. She would hit me usually, and throw me out of our trailer. I would have to sleep outside unless I stopped crying. I usually didn't stop."

His voice stretches far into Miles' head, tearing away the thin lining that kept his emotions in check. Miles feels his mark burn, almost vibrate under his shirt, "Christ."

"They weren't real beatings, just a few slaps and threats. They stopped as I got older," he doesn't look up from the ground.

"Like that makes it any more acceptable?" Miles feels his body shake with anger. He can clearly see a young Billy Hope in his head, with a small face and small body, bruised, crying. Miles wanted to tear the buzzer from it's stand, "Fuck, Hope, if I knew that I wouldn't have agreed to bring you to her - "

Billy's head snapped up, "Don't say that. She _loves_ me. She has trouble showing it, but she loves me. She was in litigation with Murkoff, trying to get me back. A mother who hated her son wouldn't do that."

**Miles, have you seen my purse? Miles? Miles, get your ass out here and answer me!**

"If she loved you, she wouldn't have ever laid a hand on you."

**Jesus Christ, are you deaf? Didn't you hear me calling?**

"She loves me. She never meant to hurt me, she _loved_ me."

**Stop fucking crying! I barely slapped you! Your dad did a lot fucking worse!**

"Miles? Dude, stop screaming, neighbors will call the cops. Who are you talking to?" Winona had opened the door to her complex, sandy - haired head peeking out, "Oh, right. Your ghost friend."

Miles looks down, and Billy has disappeared. Miles rubs at his face with a heavy sigh. He walks into the complex without another word.

 

 

  
-

 

 

  
Waylon's leg bounces as he waits for Miles to come back. Guilt and nervousness seeps into his skin. Winona had moved him to the couch, putting on the kettle and making him a hot cup of tea. He couldn't stop apologizing to her.

"Don't apologize, Way, there's nothing to be sorry for."

It didn't stop Waylon from feeling like complete and utter shit. Still, Winona met him with understanding, and Waylon missed that the most about Winona. How, after the tenseness of a situation passed, Winona met everything with such grace. _I'm an asshole. We shouldn't be here, I shouldn't have been so open with her. She doesn't deserve to know the things we do._

The door opens, and Waylon sits up. Miles saunters in, duffle over his shoulder. Waylon flashes him a tight, worried smile. Miles picks his head up, and Waylon tenses when he sees taut anger scrunched in Miles' expression. Miles' face softens somewhat however when he sees Waylon.

"How're you feeling, Park?" he asks, voice slightly rough. He shrugs out of the duffle, walking over to the couch. Waylon starts to stand, but Miles catches him by the shoulder, pushing him back down. His touch is warm on Waylon's shoulder.

"Better," Waylon responds. Miles eyes him carefully, hand moving to cup Waylon's jaw. Waylon feels the tenseness of his body loosen under Miles' hand. He closes his eyes, "I'm sorry. Did I hurt you?"

"No, but even if you tried, I don't think you can," he thumbs over Waylon's chin, "Any pains?"

"Just my leg, like usual," he touches Miles' hand, softly gripping his wrist, "Arms kinda hurt. I'm sorry."

"Not your fault, Park. Just a night terror. Those happen. You're fine," Miles pulls his hand away, grabbing the duffle. He unzips it, digging through and pulling out a folded shirt. He holds it out, and when Waylon takes it, he realizes its the same Nirvana shirt from earlier. Waylon didn't bother putting a new shirt back on when he finally came down from his self - induced anxiety attack, and the sudden chill in the air made him shiver. He quickly tugs on the band shirt.

"You've had something to drink?" Miles asks him.

"Yeah, yeah, Winona made me tea - where is she?"

The front door closes, and the two turn to see Winona standing in the doorway.

"Hey, Way," she says, "How're you feeling?"

"I'm fine," Waylon stands, holding his arms out. Winona hurriedly embraces him, head in his shoulder, "I'm fine."

It was almost funny. Winona used to wake up at odd hours of the night, and instead of waking their parents, she would come into Waylon's bedroom and wake him up. He would hold her in the same fashion, her little head in his shoulder, and carry her back to bed. Waylon never imagined having to be babied by his baby sister.

"You should get to bed," he says, with a pat on her back, "Work tomorrow."

"Fuck work," she mutters against his shirt. She pulls back, "Are you gonna be OK?"

Waylon shrugs, "I'll be fine."

She gives him a worried once - over, sighing through her nose. She gives Waylon a kiss on the cheek, "Goodnight," she waves at Miles, who wearily waves back. They both watch her go into her bedroom, and shut the door.

As soon as she's out of sight, Waylon feels the air in his chest escape him. He sits back down on the couch, his head in his hands. _She doesn't deserve this. She doesn't need us here, fucking her life up, putting her in danger._

"I think I'll sleep on the couch," Waylon says, looking back up at Miles, "Just in case."

"I don't know, I think you'll be fine," Miles shrugs and hold outs a hand.

Rather than argue, Waylon takes his hand, letting Miles lead him back to the spare room, feeling guilty.

"I'm sorry I woke you up."

"It's fine."

Waylon watches Miles undress and climb onto the air mattress.

"I'm sorry."

This time, Miles laughs, "Christ, Park, how many times are you gonna say it? Come here," he waves a hand, beckoning Waylon to the mattress.

Weariness burdens Waylon's body, and he lowers himself onto the mattress. Miles turns over, pulling Waylon into his chest. His body is warm, and Waylon presses an ear to his chest.

He can't hear a heartbeat.


	37. Bookshop

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK im so sorry there's like a trillion unneeded shit in this chapter but my attention to little details is Basically Uncontrollable and also I work in a bookstore and i was like "this shit would fit so perfectly in here" SO........................ give me a few seconds to just absolutely vent and geek out over books AAAHHHHHHHH
> 
> Also, Billy lore c: !!!!!! I love him,
> 
> also im learning that timeskips......are good and not super scary like I originally thought AH fuck writing Bro........

The shuffling of papers stirs Waylon awake. He slept with no issue, dreams and nightmares nonexistent. The throb in his wrists had disappeared, the pulsing of his head gone and away. Waylon sighs, turning over, reaching blindly to find Miles. When Waylon feels a warm spot, yet a lack of a body, his eyes flick open. Miles is kneeling between their duffles, papers arranged around the carpet. In his hand, he holds Waylon's stained black binder. Waylon sits up, wiping sleep from his eyes.

"Miles?"

Miles turns his head, looking over his shoulder. He closes Waylon's binder, "Hey, Park, how'd you sleep?"

"Like a rock. What're you doing?"

"Billy said something weird last night to me. I was wondering if maybe you had something about it. Sorry, should've asked you first."

"It's fine, I didn't even know you brought the papers with you," Waylon pulls the blanket off his legs, sitting on the edge of the mattress.

"Better than leaving them somewhere for Murkoff to find and destroy. I always liked having physical copies."

Waylon slides off the mattress, reaching from behind to grab the binder, "What are you looking for?"

"Anything about a lawsuit against Murkoff by Billy's mom. She was trying to get him out of Mount Massive. I thought I had something, but I haven't been able to find it," Miles shuffles through his papers

Waylon touches the front of his binder, dried blood _(I hope it's blood,)_ flaking off, opening it up. Some of the pages were splattered, corners soaked with dark stains. Waylon recognized his own notes, his handwriting smudged and messy. He thumbs through the documents he found in the asylum quickly.

"Nothing on a lawsuit from anyone named Hope...what's her first name?"

"Uh," Miles looks to the side, "Tiffany. Tiffany Hope."

"Tiffany Hope," Waylon parrots, "Nice name."

"The name Tiffany traces back to the Middle Ages, did you know? Can't imagine it existing before the 70s," Miles pulls out a yellowed paper, holding it up, "Wait, never mind, found it."

Waylon holds his binder in his lap, "What's it say?"

Miles pauses, eyes scanning the paper. Waylon watches his face grimace, "A whole lot of nothing. Just a mention of Billy knowing about her lawsuit," his shoulders slump, "Shit."

Waylon opens his binder back up, flipping through the documents. After a few minutes of reading, going over text, he picks his head back up, "Nothing in my stuff, either. Just one mention of Billy."

"Damn," Miles sighs through his nose.

"Why do you need it?" Waylon asks, pushing his binder to the side.

"Satisfying my own curiosity, I guess."

It resting on top of Waylon's duffle, Billy's voice comes through his radio, "See? She loves me. I told you."

Confused, Waylon's eyebrows furrow, "What was that?"

"Upshur doesn't think my mom loves me."

Surprise overtakes Waylon. He looks to Miles, who starts collecting his papers, not responding.

"I'm sure Miles didn't mean it, Billy," Waylon says softly, "Whatever he said, he wouldn't say it to hurt you."

Billy doesn't respond, the radio shutting off.

"What's he talking about, Miles?" Waylon asks.

Wordlessly, Miles takes Waylon's binder, tucking everything safely into his duffle.

"Miles?" Waylon slides his hands over Miles' shoulders, feeling the tenseness of his muscles.

"It's nothing, Park, forget it," Miles says. He stands, Waylon's hands slipping off, "I woke up early. Coffee should still be hot."

 

 

  
-

 

 

  
Miles had insisted he sit down, so Waylon sits, and watches him cross the kitchen, pouring Waylon his coffee. Miles slides the mug across the table, Waylon catching it, and continues working at the stove. Waylon glances between him and Billy's radio, which Waylon had carried out and placed down. Miles is tense, actions clumsy, and a little forceful as he cracks a few eggs into a pan. Waylon sips his coffee.

_I want to ask him what he said to Billy. It's so unlike Miles to say something so cruel, I almost don't want to believe it. But Billy wouldn't lie about something like that. Maybe it was just a misunderstanding?_

As he mills over his thoughts, Miles pushes a plate of eggs and well - done toast in front of Waylon.

"You don't have to make me breakfast every morning, y'know. I can make it myself," Waylon says.

"Shut it and eat, Park," Miles responds, voice light and joking, clashing with his dark and irritated mannerisms, "You're too fucking thin. I'm surprised you can walk straight without your head dragging you down."

Waylon snorts, looking down. He touches his stomach. He had lost the ' _dad weight_ ,' as Lisa called it, in the asylum. He would go days without eating, with little water. He still felt half - ravenous when he ate.

"Park? Foods getting cold, c'mon."

The two eat their breakfast, then shower. Miles catches a quick kiss before Waylon goes into the bathroom. It's chaste, but reassuring _. I didn't scare him off. He still wants this._ Waylon teases himself with the thought of inviting Miles to join him, but decides against it, still unsure and nervous about himself _. I can trust Miles. He'd never to anything to hurt me._ Still, Waylon wasn't ready to open himself up, to become vulnerable to another. Everything was still too new, to raw, too up in the air.

Outside, the sun shines brightly, tantalizingly brilliant.

"I feel like I haven't been outside in days," Waylon says, staring out the kitchen window. He watches people walk down the sidewalk, enjoying the warm weather, "It's beautiful out."

Miles dries his hair with a towel, "You said it. Feel like a walk?"

"I don't know, is that a good idea?"

Miles waves a hand, "Can't stay inside like a couple of house cats. I'm going nuts in here. If I knew being on the run would be so boring, I'd've brought a fuckin' book or something."

Waylon scratches at his beard, "Guess it can't hurt."

Miles flashes a grin, "Yeah. Just some time to soak up the sunlight, stretch our legs, and we'll be back before Winona comes home."

 

 

 

  
-

 

 

  
 _Just a quick walk around the block. Nothing serious_. The sky is a wonderful shade of blue, the sidewalks busy with people, bikes and cars whirring by on the street. It's warm, reaching close to eighty degrees, and Waylon wishes he thought of bringing a pair of shorts with him. The sun kisses Waylon's cheeks, and he smiles as he keeps a slow gait. His denim hat tipped low, he glances at Miles, who keeps himself close to Waylon's side, their hands absently brushing together every few steps. They don't talk, passing by brightly - colored buildings that Waylon is amazed by. He remembers coming to his house, and his boys joked about painting the old Colonial a neon green or a bright blue. _Maybe that's not such a silly thing after all._

Before they left, Miles raided Winona's bathroom of gauze and bandages, covering the wounds where his fingers had once been. If Waylon hadn't known there was nothing under the bandages, he never would've guessed Miles was missing any of his fingers.

How long they walked, Waylon wasn't sure. He was too busy soaking up the vibrant city around him, worries ebbing away. Miles eventually stops them in front of a building with big windows and a big, heavy - looking wooden door. The building is brick, with wooden accents that give it an almost antique look. Waylon squints in the sunlight, seeing stacks of books in the window displays. Painted red text on the window reads:

**RED TED'S BOOKS - A - DOZEN.**

"How about it, Park? Grab a few paperbacks for the road?" Miles asks, jerking his head to the building. He keeps his hands in his pockets.

Waylon agrees, and both men walk into the building. The inside of the bookstore is large, with high bookshelves that line the maroon - painted walls. Rows of shelves are lined neatly on the wooden - paneled floor, books neatly arranged. The yellow inside lights hanging from antique - appearing chandeliers gave the bookstore a homey, almost cozy feeling. Miles lets out an impressed whistle.

"Nice place," he says, tipping his black baseball cap up. The bookstore isn't very crowded, few people scattered between shelves.

"You said it, God, look at all these books," Waylon approaches a table, newest mystery arrivals on display. He counts seven different titles, four in hardcover, two in paperback, one cozy mystery in a mass market. He picks up new Jo Nesbo release, Miles leaning over his shoulder.

"I didn't know he had anything new," Miles says, picking up another from a stack.

"You a big reader?"

"Yeah. Switched to a digital reader to save space," he quickly flips through the book, "Should catch up on Nesbo, missed the last couple that came out. How about you, Park?"

Waylon puts the book in his hand down, approaching a shelving unit stuck into the wall. A sign on the top of the unit labels the section as MYSTERY. He traces a finger over the spines of the books, "Not as much as I'd like. Too busy with work, with the kids. I've been on the same page in Dan Brown's _Inferno_ for six months," Which Waylon is unceremoniously reminded that he had brought the book to Mount Massive, and had since left it there. He curses himself. _I'll never be able to remember where I left off._

The number of books on each shelf differs, ranging from between fourteen and eighteen on each. There's eight shelves for each shelving unit, and Waylon counts 121 books in the unit. He gently runs his fingers over each spine.

"You like Dan Brown?" Miles scoffs, coming up behind Waylon to pick out a white paperback, "I think he's a bit boring, but to each man his own, I guess. What'd'you like, Park? Thrillers? Fantasy? Maybe a little romance?"

Waylon grins, "I don't know. Whatever catches my attention, I guess," He can't remember the last time he's finished a book. _Maybe years ago, before times got tough and I cared more about work than anything else._

"I was always a horror guy, myself."

Waylon's head snaps to him, eyebrows up. He almost laughs, "No way."

"Yeah, ironic, right?" Miles places the book in his hand back on the shelf, "Clive Barker, Stephen King, all that. You think I'd've learned that a journalist doesn't go to some creepy asylum by himself." He moves past Waylon, walking towards a section titled ROMANCE, "Maybe if I have the time, I'll pen out a manuscript and mail it out somewhere."

Waylon never understood how Miles could find humor in such terrible, serious situations, but he keeps any responses he has behind tight lips. He quickly follows behind Miles, watching him pick up a small paperback. On the cover was a blonde woman in a low cut, pink dress being held by a handsome, dark - haired Scotsman _(Shirtless, of course.)_

Miles shakes his head, putting the paperback down, "I will never understand the obsession with Scottish highlands, or anything historical for that fuckin' matter. It sucked, and every sixth person died of starvation or chicken pox. Wife read a lot of these, Park?"

Waylon feels his heart stop, "No."

Miles turns away slightly, picking up another, larger paperback.

Pushing away the guilt in his gut, Waylon absently fingers out a small hardcover from a tightly packed shelf. The cover is of a dark - haired woman in a forest, facing a cabin with one orange window. He puts it down, thumbing through a few more disinteresting books, following Miles as they made their way through the aisles. Miles stops them at a section labelled FICTION.

"Oh, hold on, I think..." Miles moves away from Waylon, scanning the shelves. He plucks a dark paperback from the bottom shelf, "Lynn has been telling me to read her for a while," he holds the book out.

Waylon takes it. It's a medium sized book, heavy in his hand, with a black cover with the photo of a faded mansion at the top. On it read _The Little Stranger,_ by Sarah Waters. Waylon flips the book over, reading the synopsis on the back.

"Sounds interesting," Waylon says, "You read it?"

"Nah, but Lynn has been bugging me for months to read some of her works. It's all Victorian - age dramas, mostly with women, not really my scene. But Lynn says she's a phenomenal writer, so maybe you'll get more enjoyment out of her than I ever would."

Waylon tucks the book under his free arm, "Maybe. Let's keep looking."

"I'm limiting it to one book each," Miles says, pointing with his left index finger, "I haven't been in a bookstore in years and if we stay any longer we're gonna leave with, like, eighteen books."

The two talk, maneuvering through the shelves. Waylon points out odd book titles with strange covers, counting each title as they go. Miles picks out the most (as he describes them,) pretentious looking books and reads excerpts of them, usually in a tinny or deep voice meant to mock the writer. Waylon laughs at each read, and suppresses the urge to kiss Miles when he throws him a crooked grin. Though Waylon is encased by shelves upon shelves of different literature that should have no problem catching his attention, he holds onto _The Little Stranger,_ tucked safely under his arm.

Every so often, Waylon feels cold brush against his arm. He still had the radio on his hip, and felt Billy pull at it at odd moments, catching Waylon's attention to focus on some random display or another. A particularly hard tug turns Waylon to the store's SCI-FI/FANTASY section. Waylon's eyes bug out of his head as an invisible force tugs a large - looking book from the shelf. Waylon quickly darts to the shelf, and grabs it, head swiveling as he looks for anyone around. There's no one, besides Miles, who turns when he hears the commotion.

"What?" He asks, head tilted an inch.

"I think," Waylon starts, nerves settling, "Billy wants one too."

Miles takes the copy from Waylon's hand. His lips pout as he reads, eyebrows furrowing, " _Lost Gods_ , by Brom," Miles says, holding the book up, cover facing out. It was a darker, yellow - green book with a fantastical illustration of a sphinx on the cover. He leans closer to Waylon, voice low.

"He's usually a little too whimsical for me," Miles says, "But we all could use some whimsy right fuckin' now," he smirks, and tucks the book under his arm, "Alright, I don't see anything. You still wanna look before we head back?"

"You sure? Out of all these books, you can't find anything?" He asks as Miles makes his way to the front of the store.

"Nope - wait, hold on," Miles picks up a red and black book. He flips it, reading the back, "Found something."

The two approach the register. Behind a large, wooden counter with an antique register, was a distracted woman. She wore a black button - down, and she had dark skin and a shaved head. Waylon squints his eyes. _She looks familiar, do I know her?_

The employee looks up, closing a book she was reading. She gives the two men a polite grin.

"All set?" She asks, standing straight.

"All set," Miles answers, placing their haul on the counter.

As she rings up the items, Waylon can't stop staring. _I know her, from somewhere. She's can't be older than twenty, not from college._

"Oh, you've got some good taste," she says, taking cash Miles hands her, "Brom, Sarah Waters....Riley Sager is still a new writer, but I've only heard good things."

"Haven't read it? Isn't it your job to read every books that walks your way?"

The woman laughs fakely, and her nose scrunches. She plays with her nametag, which reads Darby.

Like God himself had hit the button, the world pauses, and Waylon's blood turns to ice. _Oh no._

The employee's gaze turns to Waylon, "I mostly read - " her face drops. Waylon pulls his cap down, suddenly interested in his shoes. _Shit_.

"Something wrong?" Miles asks, his voice tight, but even, Waylon hearing him scoop his change into his pockets and the crinkling of receipt paper.

He hears the woman laugh, "Oh, no, I'm fine. Sorry, you just...."

Waylon doesn't dare pick his head up.

"You look really familiar," Her eyebrows scrunch, "You don't happen to go to the Academy of Art, do you?"

"No," Waylon answers quickly, head tilted in a way where he can still see the employee, but his eyes are hidden under the brim of his hat, "We aren't from around here."

"Hm," the woman gives him a once - over, "My mistake. Sorry."

"It's fine. I just have one of those faces."

"Have a nice day, Miss," Miles says, quickly picking the books up, one arm hooked around Waylon's waist. He leads them both out.

 

 

  
-

 

 

  
As soon as the employee started addressing Waylon, Miles could feel stress roll off of him, crackling like static in the air. Miles tried his best to leave in a hurry, without raising any real suspicions, leading Waylon out by holding a hand at the small of his back. He could see Billy a few feet ahead, flitting forward in smoke clouds, leading them quickly back to Winona's complex. The once lovely, wanted sun had turned hot and sour, too bright in Miles' eyes. He plugged in the door code for the complex, rushing Waylon up the stairs. He partially throws him into his sister's apartment, shutting the door and locking it.

"What the fuck was _that_ , Park?" Miles asks loudly, checking the lock.

Waylon sinks down into the couch, throwing his hat off, "That was Winona's _girlfriend_ , Miles," Waylon says, swearing under his breath, "Darby. I couldn't remember her name, barely knew what she _looked_ like."

 _You could've said she worked in a fucking bookstore,_ Miles bites to himself. _Calm down. If he knew where this girlfriend worked, he would've said something, wouldn't he? Think logically, Upshur, not with your instinct._

Ripping the bandages from his hands, Miles checks, rechecks, checks, and rechecks the lock on the front door and the windows of the apartment. He, though it frustrated and angered him, avoided Winona's room.

"She'll be getting one confusing text, then," He throws off his cap, "Fuck me. We'll just have to wait until she gets back to ask her about it."

Turning around, he watches Billy's grey form picking up the books which Miles had thrown haphazardly inside. Billy had been mostly quiet, staying out of Miles' way, barely uttering a few words the whole outing. Miles wasn't a man who let his pride overtake what was right, but hearing Billy vehemently defend his mother's actions caused Miles' temper to spike, keeping any apologetic words hidden behind spite. This caused an uneasy, tense air between the two, one that Miles was now determined to break.

As Billy stacks them neatly with smoke, Waylon's deep - set eyes watch the display. _Probably looks weird, from his viewpoint. Seeing shit move with no cause._ Waylon's attention breaks to squirm himself out of his crutch, placing it down. He rubs at his eyes, exhaling.

"We have to leave," he says, "Today, tonight, tomorrow morning. Whenever, we have to go, and it has to be soon."

Miles wants to shrug off Waylon's words as just suggestion, but it's a cold, harsh fact. Waylon isn't so spellbound by his love for his family, that he doesn't understand the danger both men's arrival had put his sister in. Miles can only watch, and only guess how painful the words are to say out loud.

"Miles?"

"Yeah, yeah I heard you," Miles takes a seat next to him, "We'll stay the night, leave in the morning. How's that sound?"

"Sounds like shit."

Miles huffs with a grin, despite Waylon's grim look, "Hey, we can't stay here forever, and we promised Billy we'd take him to see his mom. It's not fair to make him wait so long."

Billy's head picks up, hands grasping his own shoulders, thin eyebrows raised.

Waylon shakes his head, "How are we going to explain this to her?"

"We'll figure something out," Miles says reassuringly, more to himself than to Waylon. _How can you tell a mother her son is dead, and that his spirit is reaching out to her? We'll sound like a couple of freaks on her doorstep._

They wait in silence for hours until Winona finally arrives home. When she does, her face is tense as soon as she crosses the threshold.

She drops her backpack on the floor, "My girlfriend said she saw a man today, that looked just like me," she tore off her snapback, throwing it onto the table, "She swore up and down that it could've been you, Way."

"We just went for a walk," Miles says in defense, "Stumbled upon some little bookstore. Thought we'd be fine to stop in. Neither of us knew where she worked."

Winona pulls at her short hair, "She thinks I'm hiding something from her. When you first went missing, Way, she said she was going to stick by me, no matter what. No matter what came our way."

Out of the corner of his eye, Miles sees Waylon run a hand over his face, hold it over his mouth.

"She knows I'm hiding something, I can tell by the way she fucking _speaks_ to me," she's crying, pulling at the chain around her neck, "I don't know how fucking long I can _do_ this."

Waylon leaps from his seat, crashing into Winona. Her arms crushed against his chest, her head falls onto his shoulder, wordlessly sobbing.

Miles looks down at his feet, focusing on his fingers. _Should've never come here._

 

 

  
-

 

 

  
Winona turns in early, at eight, eyes sunken and hollow as she bids her brother and Miles a goodnight.

"Oh, almost forgot," she reaches into her backpack, pulling out a few folded bills, and a paper folder. She hands the items to Miles, "Got someone who gave me $100 for your tapes. Sorry I couldn't've gotten more for them."

"It's yours," Miles says, handing back the cash to her, "We're covered."

Winona eyes him curiously, but pockets the money, "Then a friend of mine in the photography department was nice enough to develop your photos. I didn't want to ask my girlfriend "

"Did you happen to see what was on there?" Miles asks her, ripping open the folder.

"Would you be mad if I said yes?"

"Of course not."

"I did, yeah. None of them are family vacation photos, that's for sure."

Miles takes out one photo from inside the folder.

The room is sucked of warmth, coldness flanking Miles on all sides, the only sense of heat the hunk of rage in the pit of his gut. It flares like a fire, flames licking at his insides, inciting an overwhelming feeling of enragement. Almost masochistically, Miles drinks in the contents of the photo.

He quickly shoves the photo back in, "Thank you," he manages to get out, feeling tight in his skin. _Sadistic bastard. Forgot he gave it to me back then. Wasn't paying attention._

"Is..." Winona starts, but she quickly abandons her thought, "No problem," She approaches Waylon, who stands, giving her a tight hug.

"I love you," he says, almost weepily.

"I love you, too," she breaks. Quickly after, she retires, leaving Waylon and Miles and Billy to sit amongst themselves.

Miles waits two hours, passing the time with reading. Billy's book is open on the table, and he flips each page with a soft gust of wind.

As soon as Miles is sure Winona is asleep, he closes his book.

"We gotta go, Park."

Waylon marks his page with a receipt, frown tight, "I thought we were leaving in the morning."

"You saw her, Park. I think it's better if we leave now."

Obviously unhappy, Waylon agrees, if weakly. They quickly and quietly tidy up the apartment, like they hadn't been hiding out there for the past few days. They collect their things, checking around to see if they left any scraps of clothing or items. Waylon pauses in front of Winona's door.

"I want to check on her before we leave."

Miles doesn't respond with more than a nod. Waylon slips into Winona's room, closing the door behind him. Miles waits at the kitchen table, unpacking his bag.

"I thought we were leaving, Upshur?" Billy asks, legs swinging from his spot on Winona's counter.

"We are," he takes out his papers, and Waylon's binder.

Waylon walks back in the kitchen, teary eyed. He wipes at his eyes, "What're you doing?"

"Leaving Winona a parting gift. Can I have that bag I gave you?"

Waylon pulls the bag with their camera memory cards, and Miles' phone SIM card, from around his neck off. He hands it to Miles, "Why does Winona need these?"

"She works with Susie, remember? We'll leave a note, and Winona can say she got a package in the mail," he arranges the display neatly, with the plastic bag of chips on top, "It's always good to have physical copies, but we can't be carrying this shit around. You think she'd be OK with that?"

"She'd be happy to hand it all to Susie," Waylon says with a sniff, "And better with her than letting it all fall into Murkoff's hands with us."

"That's _if_ they catch us. Which they won't, because as long as we're smart and a step ahead, we'll keep escaping them," Miles searches a drawer, pulling out a scrap piece of paper and a pen, "You wanna write the note, or should I?"

"I'll do it," Waylon says, grabbing the paper and pen. He sits down at the table, Miles watching as he quickly scribbles out a note. Small tears edge at Waylon's eyes as he finishes, "Done."

Miles runs a hand over his back, deciding to leave Waylon's note for Winona's eyes only, "You've got everything?"

"Yeah," Waylon stands, folding the note and placing it next to the things they were leaving behind.

They grimly exit the apartment, Billy locking the door behind them.

 

 

  
-

 

 

  
They drive through the night, until city and towns just became expanse of dirt and desert, cold and mysterious under the cover of darkness. There is no moon, and stars blink sleepily above, as if they would join their usual silver companion in her rest. Miles stops for bathroom breaks every hour, making the trip slightly longer than either of them liked.

Waylon can't escape the asleep, tear - stained visage of Winona. She haunts him, just like his children and wife did, another memory to be left behind for her own safety. He's exhausted, brain racing as he thinks of his family.

"Two AM isn't the most reasonable hour, Billy," Waylon says, fingering the arm rest of his crutch, trying to focus on the task at hand, "What if she's not home?"

"She'll be home," Billy responds through the radio, "She's always home."

"She has a job though, doesn't she?"

"As a waitress at a local bar, the same place since I was six. She works days, mostly, with long hours. She'll be home."

"A lot can change in the few years you've been gone," Miles says, "What if she's moved?"

"She hasn't moved since I was born," Billy says, tone defensive, "My mother, if anything, is predictable. She wouldn't move unless she absolutely had to."

Miles grunts, "Whatever you say, Hope."

Dread carefully creeps it's way into Waylon's mind, "What if Murkoff is waiting there? She was involved in a lawsuit with them, right? They could be waiting for us to show up."

"I don't think so," Miles says, "William Hope is dead. They aren't expecting a dead man to visit his mom. Besides, with the shitstorm we stirred, I think a mother's lawsuit is the last thing on their mind."

Passing the city limits of Ridgecrest, Miles turns up the radio.

"Alright, Hope, where to?"

"Stay on this main street, straight through town. We're clear on the other side, in a trailer park," Billy's voice edges on excitement.

The town is barren, with little, person - owned shops and stripped - white buildings. Dark yellow streetlights do nothing to light the roads, and Miles drives slow.

"How did you get involved with Mount Massive anyway, Billy?" Waylon asks, passing by the empty husks of boarded - up buildings, cracked sidewalks.

"I had just turned nineteen. I was no longer my Mama's little boy. I was a man, and a man needs a job to support the women in his life."

Waylon nods, but disagrees silently. Though his parents tried to instill a sense of good - ol' - fashionedt masculinity in Waylon, it never took.

"Me and her both were asking around town, looking for work for me," Billy continues, "Then, one day, I woke up and my mom had said she had asked around, and someone had finally gotten back to her. A job opportunity, out in Colorado. Janitorial work, for Mount Massive Asylum."

"And you took it," Waylon says.

"Yes. We pooled together what little money we had, and I took a bus from here to a small town just down the mountain. From there, it was a two hour walk up the mountain. When I arrived, the nicest man greeted me, and told me I'd start immediately."

"And it was all downhill from there," Miles comments bitterly.

"They took me to the the rooms, with the other patients. I didn't see any of them, not yet. I dropped my things off there, and they gave me a fresh change of clothes, and led me down to another room where I spoke to a doctor. He took some tests, asked me a few questions."

"You didn't think it was weird you were there as a janitor, and they were basically interrogating you?" Miles asks.

"No, I thought it was an interview. A normal part of the process. It wasn't until they brought me back to my room and I saw some of the other patients, that I realized this job wasn't what I thought it would be," Billy's tone dropped, tinging with sadness, "I tried to explain to them that there was a mistake, that I was there as part of the cleaning crew, but none of them swayed."

"I don't think there ever was a job, Billy," Waylon says sadly, "I think they lured you there."

"Oh, taking advantage of people in less - than - ideal circumstances? Surprise, surprise," Miles says, voice dripping with a snippy sarcasm.

"Happened to me, too," Waylon says, passing crumbling houses surrounded by dirt, "Jesus, just thinking about it, how many other people were brought to Mount Massive to shut them up? Or other fake charity shitholes Murkoff used as a front?"

A shaky breath exhales through the radio, "The first patient I met was Chris Walker. He was on a metal gurney, shackled down. He had a dead look in his eye, no life, yet his chest moved, and his skinless lips bared broken teeth. He looked like a dead dog. I was so scared. And you know what he said to me?"

"What did he say?" Waylon holds a hand to the dashboard, as if Billy were the vehicle itself, and his touch would sooth.

"He raised his dead head, and he said, _'You're just a boy. What are you doing here?'_ He started thrashing and screaming on the gurney, and they wheeled him away."

"Christ," Miles hisses. Dim streetlight passes over his face, showing Waylon how tensely he was gripping the steering wheel.

"I'm....so _sorry_ , Billy," Waylon says.

"You shouldn't be sorry. You freed me, Waylon, with your e - mail. A few weeks after they kidnapped me, they put me in the Engine. My organs started failing a month after. Even if I wanted to, I couldn't leave that glass prison, not physically. I can't thank you, either of you, enough for that."

Waylon swallows hard, giving the dashboard a pat, and leaning back into his seat.

They drive longer, passing foreclosed homes and husks of houses. The van headlights illuminate a clearing, gated off by rusted chain fences. A dingy, battered and weathered sign on one side of the fence read GREEN VALLEY TRAILER PARK.

"This is it," Billy breathes, "It's much nicer in the daylight, I _swear_. Park out here, people don't drive cars inside."

Waylon glances at the clock, seeing it blink at 3 AM. Miles parks the van on the side, between trees that cast a sinister shadow over them. Miles reaches into the back, grabbing the flashlight he packed.

"Stay here, Park," he says.

"What?" Waylon sets himself in his crutch, "No, I'm coming with you."

Miles side - eyes him, but sighs, "Fine. Just keep behind me, and tell me if you see anything strange."

 

 

  
-

 

 

  
With Waylon holding onto the back of his shirt, Miles carefully steps through dirt and dry desert plants, shining the heavy - duty flashlight at the ground to avoid desert snakes or any garbage. Through the darkness, he see's the pinprick white lights of Billy's eyes shine through shadow, quickly darting through.

"Nothing has changed!" Billy exclaims, and Miles shines the light onto the white dots in the air, jolting a bit at Billy's wide and crooked smile, "The whole time I was gone, everything is still the same!"

Miles leads them through the gates.

"We lived all the way in the back, at the edge of the lot."

Miles follows Billy's voice, careful avoiding trash, patio furniture, and the edges of trailers. He tries to keep quiet, keeping his flashlight pointed at the ground. The sound of a can jittering next to the causes Miles to stop dead in his tracks.

"That was me, sorry," Waylon whispers.

Miles sighs, continuing, following white dots and a layered voice through the trailer park. His flashlight catches faded green metal. Miles squints, coming closer, recognizing it as the same trailer Billy had shown him in the headspace.

"This is it," Billy says, appearing in front of the aluminum door, "Should I knock? I want to knock. I missed her so much \- "

"Hold it, Hope," Miles whispers. He taps the hand on his shirt, handing Waylon the flashlight, "Let me. She can't see you, remember?"

Hesitation burns through Miles. Even if he hadn't known about Tiffany Hope's cruelty towards her son, none of this made sense. _Why go out of state for a job? There's plenty of work in California, why Colorado?_ The more Miles thought, the more he questioned.

Billy shrinks into the shadows, Waylon shining the light on the door, "Is this it?"

"Yeah. Stay here, Park, let me handle it."

"What are you going to say?"

Miles shrugs, and thanks God for the cover of night, because he _doesn't_ know what he's going to say. Billy edges into the corner of the light, black eyes wide. Miles takes a deep breath, stepping forward, mind whirring as he tries to think of ways break the ice with Tiffany Hope _. Hi, my name is Miles Upshur, you know, from the news? Anyway, your son is dead and his spirit wants to speak to you._ He raises an unsure hand, knocking gently.

They wait one minute, two, three. _It's late, she's probably sleeping_. After four minutes, Miles knocks again, harder.

"You sure she's home?" Miles asks, quiet.

"Of course she is," Billy responds, "I'm positive. Let me check inside, maybe I can wake her."

Miles steps back from the door, hands shoved into his pockets.

"What's up?" Waylon asks.

"Billy's checking inside. We're just gonna wait for her to wake up."

The two stand outside the trailer, peeking over their shoulders, glancing at every rustle of the trees. The longer they wait, the more dread fills Miles' gut. _Something's not right here._

"He's been gone a long time," Waylon says after a few moments of silence, "It's not a very big trailer. Should we knock again?"

Miles sighs, "No, no, we'll give him a few minutes - "

Heat bursts in Miles' chest. He looks down, seeing an orange glow _. What the fuck?_

"She's _gone_."

 


	38. Gone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS FOR: VIOLENCE, GORE, PHYSICAL ASSAULT, CHILD ABUSE. CHILDHOOD PHYSICAL ABUSE, HOMOPHOBIC LANGUAGE

" _What_?"

"She's _gone_ ," Billy states again, voice tight and high, "She's not here - there's nothing _here_!" A metallic click resonates through the air, and the front door swings open.

"Uh," Waylon shifts, "What's going on?"

 _I knew something was off. Fuck me_.

In the doorway, Billy's long - haired form braces himself, fingers tightly gripping the doorframe.

"I thought you said she'd still be here?" Miles asks quietly, reaching behind and motioning Waylon to hand him the flashlight. Waylon slips him the light, "Stay here, Park," he adds.

"She was supposed to be!" Billy says, shaking his head, gaze pointed down, "I don't understand!"

"Let's not panic," Miles says, "Maybe she picked up a night shift," he approaches Billy, "Let me look around, see if there's something there."

"There's _nothing_! The trailer is _empty_!" Billy disappears in a puff of smoke, "There's not a trace of my mom! Look around, if you want, but there's _nothing_!"

Miles steps into the trailer. Like Billy had said, the trailer was empty, nothing but barren sides. No bed, no furniture, no signs of a person living inside. Miles shines his light, catching nothing. He opens cabinets to the kitchenette, finding them all empty, with nothing but dust. He approaches a small table built into the wall, light catching a glossy cover. Miles picks up a worn brochure, focusing the light. On the cover was a scene of white - capped, blue mountains, with a fancy print that said **COLORADO: REAL ESTATE.** Pocketing the brochure, Miles sweeps through the small trailer, searching for anything else, but finds nothing.

He exits the trailer, shining the light onto Waylon. He's standing uncomfortably, expression worried.

"Looks like Ms. Hope picked everything up and left," Miles says, keeping his voice low, "Found this," he holds the brochure up, handing it to Waylon. Waylon studies it in the light.

He opens the brochure, studying the contents, "Looks like she was planning on moving to Colorado," he says, "Look, there's a few houses she's circled."

Miles looks over Waylon's shoulder, "These are some expensive houses, millions of dollars worth of real estate."

"Could've moved to be closer to her son. If she was suing them, she might've been trying to get to him," Waylon closes the brochure, pocketing it.

Miles shakes his head, "I don't know, something's not right here. Why a house? Easier to find some dump apartment. And it's hard to imagine someone living _here_ buying a $500k house."

"She was trying to get to me!" Billy breathes, voice shaking as it rings in Miles' head, "She loves me, I told you! I told you!"

Gritting his teeth, Miles rubs at his jaw, "That's not the problem right now, Billy. We have to figure out where she is," He shines the light around, "Is there a lot manager around?"

"Yes, Miss Wilma. She was nice, almost like a grandmother," flashlight catches Billy sitting in front of a large RV.

"No point in waking her up now. Lock the trailer back up, Hope, we'll have to wait until she wakes up."

Billy stares with a horrid, frightened expression, "Why? Why not wake her up now?"

" _Hope_ \- "

"My mom is _missing_. She could be dead, or - or taken! She _needs_ me!" Billy stands, fists balled at his sides.

Miles purses his lips, feeling frustration thrum through his blood. He takes a few deep breaths, "We're gonna wait until morning."

Billy shakes his head, disappearing.

"What's happening?" Waylon asks, leaning into Miles.

"We're gonna ask the lot manager where Tiffany Hope is, tomorrow morning. Let's get get back to the van."

 

 

  
-

 

 

  
Miles' sleep is jolted by a loud knock on the windows of the van. Through the back windows, he see's the scrunched and aged face of an older woman peer through, eyes hidden by large sunglasses. _Shit_. He immediately untangles himself from Waylon's sleepy grip, opening the back door and hopping out. He tries to un - wrinkle the front of his shirt. Before they slept, Miles affixed gauze to his hands, and he quickly sets the bandages back in place.

He offers the woman a friendly smile, "Good mo - "

"Who're _you_?" she doesn't so much as _ask_ , more demands, hands on her hips. Her graying hair was stuck in a messy bun, wearing a long t - shirt with jean shorts.

Miles closes the back doors behind him, "I'm Jacob, I - "

"Jacob _what_?" The woman asks, scowling.

"Sterling, Jacob Sterling," _This must be Miss Wilma_ , "I'm sorry for being on your property, ma'am, but me and my friend were looking for Tiffany Hope."

The woman grunts a laugh, "You ain't the first."

Miles sticks out a hand, "Sorry, Miss....?"

"Wilma. Bernadette Wilma," she shakes his hand in a strong grip, then leans on one leg, crossing her arms. Miles notes that she ignores the gauze around his fingers.

"Miss Wilma, right. We heard about Tiffany's son through the news."

Miss Wilma holds a hand over her heart, "Oh, poor Billy, it's such a tragic thing. I knew that boy. He was a weird one, but he didn't deserve what happened to him. First he's got a whore momma who left him alone most of his days, then he gets caught up in all that bull," she sighs, "How do you know Billy?"

Behind her, Billy appears, empty eyes wide.

"He used to go to high school with my friend's sister," Miles says quickly, "She was devastated. She didn't have Tiffany's number, but she wanted to talk to her. She's real sick right now, so she asked him and I to pay her a visit."

"Didn't know young Billy had any friends. Preferred to keep to himself, runnin' around with animal corpses and shit."

Miles shrugs, "From what I heard, my friend's sister and Billy weren't close. She just wanted to send her condolences. Does Tiffany still live here?"

Wilma sighs, "No, not no more. She moved out two years ago, left that trailer here. It's in shitty condition, can't seem to find a buyer anywhere."

"Where's she live now?"

"Colorado."

 _Dammit, that's the last place we wanna be,_ "Oof, Colorado is pretty out of our way."

"I wouldn't want to be there, neither, with all that shit goin' on. But, Tiff wanted to get out of this hole, and I assumed she wanted to be closer to her boy. Too bad she didn't know what was really goin' on in there."

Miles cocks his head, "Were they close?"

Wilma shakes her head, "Not especially. She worked, and when she wasn't workin' she was shootin' up or out whorin' around, or screamin' at that poor boy."

Miles glances at Billy, who's face was tight, "That's awful," _Abusive, substance abuse issues, men using her as a revolving door. Where have I heard this before?_

"He made the best of it, though. Always had some big smile on his face, a bird feather or a rock in his hand. Liked collecting shit," Wilma's lips quirk into a grin, "He used to help me out with my garden, y'know, before he went out for that job in Colorado."

"Sucked to have your partner in crime a few states away?"

Wilma scoffed, "Sure did. Whole time he was gone, Tiff started talkin' about all the money he was sending back. Bought herself jewellery, fancy new clothes, couldn't stop bragging about the fat checks she was getting in the mail."

"I heard she was trying to get Billy out of Mount Massive," Miles says, crossing his arms and leaning back.

"Huh, never mentioned anything about that," Wilma says.

"I assumed you've watched part of the Mount Massive Incident tapes?"

Wilma nods, "Just a bit. Much too graphic for me."

"With the videos, there was papers. In one of them, it mentioned that Billy's mom was in some sort of legal dispute with Murkoff. I assumed she was trying to get her son back."

Wilma shrugs, "Well, can't say nothin' about that, but one thing Tiff cared about the most was money. If she thought she could squeeze more out of those bastards, she would've."

"Sorry to trouble you, ma'am, but do you happen to have her address written down anywhere? My friend's sister wanted to send flowers and a card."

"Sure do. I get mail meant for her sometimes, always forward it to her out in the mountains. I'll be right back."

As soon as Miss Wilma is out of eyeshot, Miles exhales. Behind, the van doors open, Waylon's sandy head popping out.

"We're pretty lucky," he says, hopping out, "Now we'll know where Tiffany is. I think it's a little weird that she didn't know anything about the lawsuit, do you?"

"Yeah," Miles says, hand on his chin, "If I were a parent, I'd want _everyone_ to know some big corporation was holding my son hostage."

Billy wrings his hands, voice clear through the radio on Waylon's hip, "Murkoff is _dangerous_. Of _course_ she didn't want to spread it around! They would have silenced her! Why do you think she hates me so much?"

"I don't think she _hates_ you," Miles bites defensively.

"It sounds a lot like you think so! Because _your_ mom didn't - "

Ears ringing, pictures flash behind Miles' eyes. A broken bottle at his feet. A man with a raised hand, a death grip on Miles' arm. His mother, dressed up, hair curled and pearls around her neck and on her ears as they closed the lid to her -

Miles grits his teeth, unable to stop the words he spits out, "You bring my mom up again and we _definitely_ aren't going to see her, Hope! We won't step one fuckin' _foot_  Colorado!"

Billy's expression falls, chest heaving, "You _wouldn't_ \- "

"I _would_!" Miles takes an angry step forward, forcing Billy to take a fearful step back, "If you open your fucking mouth again, you can forget it!"

White liquid welling in Billy's eyes, streaming down his face, he explodes in a cloud of dust with a pitiful sob, the radio on Waylon's hip quickly switching off. Miles doesn't dare move, fingers flexing, gut wrenching with rage, marking burning, like it would light his shirt aflame. _Calm down, calm down, calm down_. He turns around, seeing Waylon flinch. Frightened eyes dart over him, Miles waves an angry hand.

"I'm goin' for a walk. That lady comes back, you talk to her."

 

 

  
-

 

 

  
Waylon keeps a nervous grip on Billy's radio as Miles stomps off. He'd never seen him so rageful. This wasn't like back at Miles' apartment, where stress was beating on the man, this was a defensive anger. Something Waylon had never seen from him before. Waylon hadn't meant to flinch away, but truth is, he was almost _frightened_ at how Miles was speaking to Billy. Every word was thinly - veiled, like he would crack and unleash whatever rage he was keeping inside. _Not right for him to keep everything bottled up, but he can't take it out on other people._

 _Shit, I can't be blaming him for anything._ The more Waylon hears about Tiffany Hope, the more questions he has. Why didn't Tiffany contact the police, or at least someone, when she realized Murkoff was holding her son hostage? Why send him out all the way to Colorado for a job? Things didn't quiet add up in Waylon's head.

Then there was the subject of Miles' mom. Even before today, Waylon had questions about Miles' parents. They were a dark, mysterious blot on Miles' life, Waylon was certain of that. _I should ask him about it, later, maybe when we're back on the road._

Ten minutes pass of Waylon sweating in the Death Valley sun, when he sees the small figure of Wilma walking his way, a paper clutched in her hand. She seems almost surprised to see Waylon, but quickly relaxes.

"Ah, you're that friend with the sister?" She asks.

"Yes ma'am," Waylon replies, having eavesdropped while Miles was talking outside, "I'm....Deagle Bright."

Wilma's mouth grimaces, " _Deagle_?"

Mentally slapping himself, Waylon nods, "Yeah, unfortunately. I'm sorry to hear about Tiffany's son. He and my sister went to school together."

"Your friend said as much. Where'd he go, anyway?"

"For a walk, to go stretch his legs."

Wilma holds the paper in her hand up, "Ah, well, like I told him, Tiff doesn't live here anymore. I said I'd bring him the address, but I guess I can hand it to you."

Waylon takes it, "Thank you so much, I'll be sure to give it to my sister," he looks down at the address. _Huh, that's a couple miles away from Pinewood Summit,_ "Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?"

"Not at all."

"What was he like? Billy Hope?"

Wilma rests her hands on her hips, "Well, he was weird, but sweet. Never had any friends, kept to himself. He'd spend hours outside, diggin' in the dirt, but he never caused any trouble. But that mother of his," she scoffs, "No matter how well behaved he was, nothin' was good enough for her."

Waylon cocks his head, "I'm hearing a lot about Tiffany Hope, what about his dad?"

"Psh, far as I knew, there _was_ no father. It was just Tiff and that boy."

"Never mentioned a dad at all?"

"Nope. Not that that surprised me, though. With the men she was bringing in and out of there, I doubt she even knew who the father was."

Waylon taps the radio on his hip, "Was it hard on Billy? Did he ever ask about his dad?"

Wilma laughs, " _Hell_ no! Such a strange kid, you know? Didn't care," she shrugs, "Never asked."

"Why?" _Weird. If I didn't know who my father was, I'd want to know who he was._

"Don't know. Maybe Tiff poisoned that boy so much he didn't think his dad wanted him, but in my opinion, I don't think Billy ever _cared_. Billy just didn't like men all that much in the first place. Can't say I blame him."

Waylon nods in agreement. He tucks the address into his jeans pocket, "You two sound close."

"We were, in a way. He was almost like a grandchild to me," she crosses her arms, drums her fingers on her skin, "Wish I said I proper goodbye before he left. I just hope he's in a better place somewhere."

Waylon plays with the dials of the radio, "I think he's much happier, wherever he is," he fidgets, chest swelling, "Um, I don - didn't, know Billy, my sister barely did, but I'm glad he had someone like you looking out for him."

Wilma slides a few fingers under her sunglasses, visibly wiping away tears. She claps her hands, "Well, I've taken too much of your time already, Deagle. I've got some work to do. Say goodbye to your friend for me."

"I will, thank you."

 

 

  
-

 

 

  
Miles runs his hand over his pocket, feeling the lift of the photo of him and his mom.

**Miles! Get your ass out here.....Miles! Don't make me ask you again!**

He can still see her, pipe in her hand, two other women with yellowed teeth and thin hair flanking her. He tries to shake the image out, but it doesn't leave him.

He walks, and walks, and walks, his only companion the scorching sun above his head and the orange dirt below his feet.

**See? Told you, looks just like his fuckin' father.**

He tries to move away, think of anything else, but the only thing he can see in his brain is his doped - up mother, sitting on their disgusting and faded living room couch.

**Haven't seen that motherfucker in months. Hah! You think he'd show up for his own son? No, he's nothing, that motherfucker is _nothing_.**

Miles leans one hand against a thin, dead tree. It's barely taller than him, bark grey, as thick as his arm. His fingers dig into the wood.

**I mean, just look at him! All fat as a pig. Kinda queer lookin', if you ask me. You should see the looks people throw 'em when we're out. Can't be surprised that bastard doesn't wanna be seen with 'em. Pass me that lighter.**

He grasps the body of the tree. An explosion of dirt casts over him as he rips the tree out, roots stretching, catching on his clothes. With a yell, he jerks his arm forward, the tree launching itself into the empty desert sky. Emotion pulses harshly in Miles, black dots dancing in his vision, angry tears almost boiling as they drip from his eyes. Rage blazes, _burns_ , churns his insides out. He collapses onto his knees, falling onto his side. Rolling onto his back, he covers his face, letting out another pained yell.

**What the fuck are you looking at? Get the fuck out before I whip you again today.**

 

 

  
-

 

 

  
Waylon sits in the open back of the van. He thumbs at the radio, switching it on and off, changing channels, turning the dial, fiddling and trying to coax Billy into an interaction. He's tried for a few minutes speaking into the radio and asking questions, but when that didn't provoke any reaction, he turned to fiddling with the radio. Ten minutes had passed, and Miles still wasn't back.

 _Ten minutes probably isn't enough time, but I should go out looking for him._ Just was Waylon stands with his crutch, he see's a blur of movement in the corner of his eye. When he looks off, he sees Miles, walking his way, clothes covered in dust and dirt.

" _Jesus_ , what happened?" Waylon calls, "Are you OK?"

" _Fine_ ," Miles says, his voice slightly hoarse. As Miles comes closer, Waylon notices a slight redness to his eyes, wet and glossy.

"You don't look fine," Waylon says. He slides into Miles' path, stopping him.

"Christ, Park, get out of my way," Miles scowls.

Waylon takes a step forward. He has a few inches on Miles, and his height forces Miles to look up at him, "What happened?"

If Miles' scowl could look any worse, it does. Waylon thinks of shrinking away, but he stands his ground. Miles looks to Waylon's chest, then down at his shoes. He huffs a fake laugh, rubbing his hands over his face. He inhales sharply, then moves his hands to his hips. When he looks back up, Waylon's heart sinks at the hurt look he has in his eyes. Miles jerks his head.

"I wanna show you something," Miles sidesteps around Waylon, hopping into the van. He grabs a paper package from the drivers seat, what Waylon recognized as the developed photos from the camera Miles had given Winona. He hops back out, handing Waylon the package.

Taking it, Waylon carefully opens the top, pulling out a stack of photos. They're glossy, like the ones Waylon and Lisa would have printed after a day out with their sons. The content, however, is everything that isn't a day at the park.

The first photo Waylon sees is of a crowd of people, all dressed in black, filtering into a faded white building. _A funeral?_ He flips to another photo, this of the same black - clad crowd sitting in chairs, the photographer grabbing their photos from the side of the venue. Another photo, this one of a man with his back to the photographer, in front of a coffin.

Waylon tears his eyes away from the photos. Miles still has his hands on his hips, watching.

"What are these?"

"Keep looking," Miles tells him, a tongue darting out to wet his lips.

There's photo after photo of the funeral, capturing the somber tone with an almost shaky hand. It's mostly stills of the crowd, the flowers, the graveyard. A photo of a man, with dark hair and sunken eyes, leaning against a wall, caught his eye. The man has a bored expression, as if he were in a meeting than a funeral. _He looks like Miles. His dad, maybe?_

The last photo of the stack - twenty five, as Waylon counted - is of a woman in the coffin. Her pale skin done with blush, hair curled. She was dressed in light blue, a string of pearls around her neck. Standing over her is a young man, with olive skin and a clean - shaven face, scowling with sharp and thick brows. Waylon thinks he recognizes the woman, but he _definitely_ recognizes the young man.

When he picks his head up, Miles is fidgeting on the spot, fingers tapping his hips, foot rapidly tapping the ground.

"You know what these are?" Miles asks him. He's grinning, like he's watching an amusing display, instead of Waylon thumbing through photos of people in mourning.

"A funeral."

Miles chuckles, "Yeah. My _mom's_ funeral."

Waylon freezes, eyes going wide, chest tightening. Miles' smile just grows. He bites his lip, pacing through the dirt.

"You know who took these photos?" He steps forward, tapping a finger to the stack in Waylon's hand, "One of my mom's crackhead friends. She was doped up, crying hysterically and shit, draping herself over the coffin. She gave my dad this shitty camera afterwards, and he gave it to me. Didn't want to be bothered," he runs a tongue over his teeth, "My mom died my sophomore year of college, car accident. She was drunk, high off her ass, crashed into a pole. They said she went quick."

Waylon's heart drops to the ground, "I'm so sorry," Sorry didn't even _begin_ to cover what Waylon wanted to say. He takes a step closer, holding the photos close to his chest.

Miles pays him no mind, "I went to her funeral, and _God_ I wish I didn't. Everyone who showed up said their goodbyes, gave their condolences," he waves his hands, speaking rapidly, "But you could see it in their fucking _eyes_ that it was only a matter of time. They were _waiting_ for her to kick the fucking bucket. She was always tweaked out, drunk every day of her fucking life, ever since I was born."

Miles grabs one of Waylon's hands, and Waylon drops the photos. Neither of them pay attention to the scattered pictures.

"Everyone knew she was a drunk and a meth addict," Miles' voice raises, "Everyone knew, and _nobody_ stepped in to help me. She, my dad, my mom's boyfriends, they all used to beat me," He points to his face, "I used to show up to school, family events, with black eyes and bruises, busted lips. One of her boyfriends broke my fucking leg when I was five. _Five fucking years old,_ and _everyone_ ignored it."

The longer Miles speaks, the less Waylon is sure Miles is talking to _him_. Miles grabs his shoulders. They feel like hot irons. Eyes watering from the pain, from watching Miles pour his very soul out onto the dirt of Death Valley, Waylon lets his crutch fall from his hand, cradling Miles' face.

"You wanna know what's bothering me, Park?"

Afraid that his voice would push Miles away, Waylon only nods.

"I'm looking into a fucking mirror, and Billy can't fucking see that. He's been in my fucking _head_ ," Miles jabs a finger into the side of his temples, "He _knows_ what happened to me. He saw it. But his mom fucked him up so much he can't see how fucked up he is. We're two sides of the same mirror, but his back is turned."

Waylon watches a tear roll down Miles' cheek.

"He went _missing_. This wasn't a fucking job, they _bought_ him, and sent mom the checks to keep her quiet. And I know the money was good, because if it wasn't, she'd've opened her fucking _mouth_. She's just as guilty as them. And she let it happen, because she knew no one was going to look for him."

Miles' expression faltered, lips tight to keep them from worrying, fingers like glass as they dug into Waylon's shoulders. It hurt, hurt, _hurt_ , to see Miles like this. Instinctually, Waylon pulls Miles in, cradling his head in his shoulder, letting fat tears roll down his face.

"I'm sorry, Miles, I'm sorry," he hears Miles croak a sob, "I'm sorry no one was there for you," _Everyone failed you. You've been ready to give up your whole fucking life, Jesus Christ._

Holding him, Miles is like a furnace, burning hot, as if reflecting the California sun, shaking, crying. Waylon holds onto him tightly, as if Miles would disappear if he let go.

Hearing tires on dirt, Waylon cracks an eye open, four black vans rapidly approaching them.

 

 

  
-

 

 

  
Waylon pulls away, " _Shit_. We gotta go!"

Miles stares, confused. He sniffs, "What?"

Gripping Miles tightly by his arm, Waylon pulls him back towards their van, " _Blackjaw_!" His skin pricks with sweat, stomach leaping into his throat.

Miles turns his head, then looks back, face tight, "Shit how did they - " he scowls, "Wilma."

The thought of a sweet old lady being in cahoots with the biggest, shadowiest corporation in the world left a bitter taste in Waylon's mouth. _Fuck....fuck, we can't trust anyone! Fuck!_

"She gave me the address," Waylon says, grabbing his crutch, leaving the photos behind, "Let's go let's go let's go!" _Fuck, but who knows if the address is real or not?_

But the two aren't quick enough. The vans skid to a halt, kicking up dirt. Waylon feels a pair of hands on his back, and Miles pushes him into the passenger seat, slamming the door.

 _"Stay here!_ " he yells through the window.

Bewildered, Waylon pounds on the glass, " _Where the fuck are you going?"_

Miles yells something into the air, and he runs off.

Waylon twists in his seat, fumbling around. _Keys, keys, keys...fuck, Miles has them! Shit!_ He looks through the back windows.

Like wasps, a swarm of men clad in black kevlar stream out of the vans. Their weapons at the ready, big, heavy - looking assault rifles, they scan the area. Out of the four vans, there's a total of twenty - four men, squads of six breaking off. Waylon's eyes dart around, Miles nowhere to be found.

_Where'd he go?_

One squad rushes towards the van, and Waylon thanks _God_ the windows are tinted. Waylon fumbles around, hitting the lock button. One of the agents jiggles the back doors, pulling. When the door doesn't heave, he motions his free hand, and two agents flank both sides of the van. Holding his breath, Waylon twists around, zipping open Miles' duffle. _Where is it? Where?_

One mercenary pounds on the passenger window. Waylon barely stifles a yelp as he tears through Miles' clothes. _Where where where where -_

His hand closes over a bumped grip.

 _There_.

The other operative tugs on the driver's door handle. Waylon tugs Miles' gun out of his duffle. _Fuck, I don't know how to work a gun!_

But Waylon has no time to figure out how to work a pistol. _Fuck, should be easy, right? I just....point and shoot. Like pissing, point and shoot. Point and shoot point and shoot point a -_

The agent on the passenger side bangs the heel of his rifle on the window. The impact makes the glass warble.

_Fuck me!_

Waylon rolls into the back of the van, holding his arms out, both hands locked around the grip. _Stay closed, please stay closed. Fuck, where'd Miles go?_ He huddles behind the driver's seat, peeking around to see the black - clad Blackjaw agent pound on the glass with his gun.

Waylon can hear yelling, the loud and rapid firing of rifles.

The agent slams harder, over and over, against the glass.

_Shit, relax, relax relax relax, you're fine just -_

The glass shatters.

With a yelp, Waylon pulls the trigger.

Nothing happens. There's no loud pop, no smell of gunpowder, no kickback, nothing. Waylon's heart drops to the bottom of his stomach, turning the gun his his palms, his hands shaking, adrenaline seizing through his body. _No, no no no no no - what the fuck happened? I thought it was loaded?!_

The agent sweeps the glass away, head picking up, staring directly at Waylon.

_I'm dead!_

Waylon holds onto the gun tightly as he scrambles to open the back van doors. Before his hand can grab the handle, the back doors fly open. An armored guard grabs him by the front of his shirt, pulling him out of the van, barking orders that fall unheard, the blood in Waylon's head beating loudly in his ears. Waylon hits the dirt on his side, hard, pain shooting up his body. The gun falls out of his hand, the agent kicking it away, stomping his boot down on Waylon's wrist, holding it there. Waylon feels pain rip through his arm. The agent pulls his arms back, knocking the butt of the gun into Waylon's cheek.

Waylon yells, pain blooming from his jaw. He raises his hand to cradle his face, but the agent kicks his arm away. The agent drives the gun again.

And again.

And again.

Into Waylon's head.

The next time he drives it down, Waylon hears a crack. The sound of the environment is sucked away. Waylon's ears ring, his vision blurring.

_I'm going to die._

Images flash in his mind.

He can see his boys. His beautiful, lovely boys, who smile and laugh and want to build Lego sets with him.

He can see his sister, his parents, all inviting him into his childhood home.

His wife, holding his hand, the both of them laughing together.

Miles.

 _Miles_.

 

 

  
-

 

 

  
Miles is more than thankful he blacks out when Billy takes over.

He's soaked in blood, seeping into his clothes, which are ripped and torn, scraps hanging loose from his body. _This is a massacre,_ Miles thinks, viewing the scene, _How long was I...asleep for, a few minutes?_ The orange dirt of Death Valley is stained red, scraps of metal and blood - soaked clothing and gore scattered among the rocks and plants. He can only imagine these men yelling in agony, begging for mercy, which will never come.

It should probably scare Miles at how desensitized to the violence that Billy enacted upon these assholes. It doesn't.

He wets his lips, tasting blood, and grimaces. He grabs a dead agent, ripping a cloth scrap from his pants, and wipes gore from his face. _Jesus, if Billy is just gonna fuck over my outfits like this, maybe I should just walk around naked._ He throws the scrap away.

" _Upshur_!"

Billy's voice is shrill, full of panic. Miles looks over, seeing Billy kneeling at the open doors of their van, over a body.

"Shit - " _Waylon_! He races over, sliding in the dirt and blood, phasing through Billy. Waylon is laying on his side, unmoving. Miles grasps his shoulders, turning him over.

Miles barely recognizes him. Waylon's face is bruised, blood pouring from his nose, mouth, and ears, clothes and skin stained with gore. Angers ebbs away, replaced with.

Fear.

Raw, shaking fear that Miles hasn't felt since the asylum. He gives Waylon a soft pat on the cheek.

"Waylon?"

Waylon doesn't move.

Panic overtaking him, Miles shakes Waylon by his shoulders, slightly lifting him from the ground.

"Waylon, wake up, they're gone," _They're dead, they can't hurt you. Please wake up, please wake up._

He lets go, and Waylon drops like a sack of rocks.

Miles looks at Billy, mouth hanging open in horror and shock.

"He's still alive," Billy says, quickly and adamantly, "I can hear his heart beat," he digs his fingers into Waylon's forehead, grey skin darkening to black. Billy sucks in a breath through his teeth, "His skull is cracked, jaw broken," he shudders, "They tried to smash his head in."

"Christ, can you help him?" If Miles could, he would bring all of the agents back to life just to kill them a second time. _I thought he'd be safe in the van. Shows how much I fucking know._

"I can help him," Miles watches as Billy reaches over, digging his hand into the mutilated corpse of an agent just a few feet away. The fingers of his other hand dig deeper into Waylon's skin, Billy's nails leaving crescent marks. Black smoke encases him and Waylon. The body of the agent deteriorates, leaving nothing but a stain in the dirt as Billy absorbs his essence.

Miles is fixed on Waylon's face, sliding one of Waylon's hands between his own, squeezing. _C'mon, Way, come back to me._

The blood that leaks from Waylon's mouth, nose, and ears, peels away, flaking off like ash, absorbing into Billy's skin. The bruising runs from deep, fresh purple, to a lighter red, to a yellow, melding, healing, until it melts back to Waylon's tan skin. Miles hears a crack, the sound of bone resetting. He brings Waylon's hand up, holding it under his chin. Slowly, the color comes back into Waylon's cheeks. Miles looks down, seeing Waylon's chest rise, and fall, rise, and fall.

Breathing a sigh of relief, Miles' body shakes as Billy lifts his hand away, and Waylon's eyes flutter open. Waylon looks dazed, eyes glossy, lazily scanning his surroundings.

"Am I dead?" he asks weakly.

Miles shakes his head, "No. Fuck, you had me scared for a second there, Way," he sits back on his heels, Waylon sitting up. When Waylon looks down at his hands and legs, he jolts.

"Christ," he looks back at Miles, "Are you OK?"

Miles almost laughs, "Am I OK? Waylon, I thought you _died_ on me for a second. I'm fine. Are _you_ OK?"

Waylon's hands flex on his thighs. Clench, unclench, matching his breathing, "I thought I was going to die, they fucking pulled me out of the van, I...." his face falls, "Shit, I grabbed your gun," he starts to rise.

Miles grabs Waylon's arm, pulling him back down, "Whoa there, Way," Waylon sits back down in the dirt, "Breathe for a second."

"He kicked it away somewhere - "

Miles cradles Waylon's face, "Easy, Park," A missing handgun is the least of Miles' concern, "Stay here, I'll find it."

He tries to stand, pull his hands away, but Waylon has a firm grip on his wrists. Waylon's eyes were screwed tight. His mouth worries, fat tears rolling down his cheeks.

Miles shifts onto his knees. It's alright, I'm not going anywhere. He wipes the tears away with his thumbs, caressing Waylon's cheeks.

"Jesus Christ, I thought he'd beat me to death," Waylon says, "I - I had it, in my hand, it wouldn't go off."

"What, the gun? Did you turn the safety off?"

Waylon's eyes snap open, deeply frowning, "I didn't even think of that."

Hearing a strange shuffling, Miles looks off to the side, seeing Billy pull his handgun from under a wet, red pile. Smoke sweeps it over, knocking into Waylon's leg. Waylon's eyes snap open, looking down. Miles lets go of Waylon's face, Waylon's hands falling back into his lap. He picks the gun up, trying to wipe away chunks of mercenary. He tilts the gun to the side, flicking the safety switch.

"The little letters here? There's a white S, and a red F. If the switch is on the white S," he thumbs away blood, "Safety's on," he pulls the trigger, hearing a soft click, "Switch it on the F," he thumbs the switch, letting it point to the red F, "Safety's off."

He turns the switch back to S.

They stay there for a few moments, the silence stealing away the adrenaline that pounded hard in their bodies, being replaced with sweat that left a cold chill on their skin, much needed in the hot California sun. Waylon shakes, muttering to himself, using the breathing exercises Miles had taught him.

Miles watches Billy pace, watching him shake his head, and wring his hands.

"I don't understand, I don't understand."

"Me neither," Miles says, even though he's positive as to how Blackjaw got to them so fast. He sighs through his nose, angry, and stands up, tucking his gun into his ripped waistband, "I think we need to talk to Miss Wilma."

He tugs Waylon to his feet, sitting him in the back of the van, and enters the trailer park.

Though true chaos ensued outside, the trailer park was untouched, like the violence was as normal as a fly in the wind. Miles doesn't see anyone walking around, doesn't see anyone peeping from trailer windows or from doorways.

The trailer park is devoid of all life, except Wilma, who's sitting in a lawn chair. Her sunglasses were off, showing off two light and beady eyes, cased by wrinkles. Miles takes one, deep breath to settle his temper, walking towards her. He stops a yard away.

"Y'know, I wasn't sure if was you at first. Looked it up when I went to get that address - and the address is good, by the way, you can trust me on that. You didn't think I wouldn't recognize you, did ya?" She says, frowning, tapping out a cigarette.

Miles shrugs, "Thought we'd be lucky enough that you wouldn't. They pay you a lot to call them if we showed up?"

Wilma shakes her head, "Some suits showed up, looking for Tiff, looking for you two. They gave me a business card, asked me to contact them if I saw anyone. There's quite a reward on both of your heads, enough to get out of this dead - end town."

 _Money. It's always about fucking money._ But Miles feels a tug at his gut, his journalist intuition, telling him there was something more. _Of course, there's always something more._

Miles notices Billy floating over Wilma's shoulder. He quickly rushes back to Miles, whispering into his ear. Miles looks at him from the corner of his eye. _Really? OK_. Miles digs his hands into his pockets.

"When Billy was six," He starts, "He found a bird skull. It was picked clean by scavengers. He glued blue glass shards onto the front, and gave it to you. You keep it by your bedside, next to your alarm clock."

Wilma's face falls.

"You have it on a little doily, along with a faded coin Billy gave you before he left for Colorado," Billy whispers another few words into his ear, "He told you he found it when he was on a walk, and that a black bird dropped it at his feet," Miles' face softens, "You have some other gifts he made you, but you hold those two the most special. You didn't do this for the money. You thought we killed him."

"You _did_ kill him," Wilma snaps, rising, "You pulled the plug on him, and now he's dead."

Miles almost laughs, "Yeah, he's dead. I pulled the plug because he was a danger to the whole fucking world. If the Walrider got out, we'd _all_ be dead. Even if Billy fucking survived, he couldn't leave the glass fishbowl, his organs were failing. He wouldn't have lasted an _hour_ outside."

He takes a step closer. He leans in slightly.

"But, y'know, if you really, _really_ loved Billy, you would've made sure Tiffany Hope lost her fucking rights to him. But you sat back, let her abuse him. You're just as guilty as Murkoff for putting him in there."

Wilma takes a step back.

Miles tilts his head, sneering, "Go back inside your shitty fucking trailer, and forget you ever saw us."

With that, he turns his back of Bernadette Wilma. He makes it a few steps, before he stops, and turns on his heel.

"By the way, do you have a hose we can use?"

 

 

-

 

 

  
Wilma was kind (Though, Waylon would use _kind_ as lightly as possible,) enough to let the two men use a hose hooked up to a pump behind her trailer. They both stripped down to their underwear, and rinsed off blood and grime from their bodies. Miles goes first, and the two chatter about the absolute mundane. Waylon tries not to stare, but Miles is handsome, his underwear soaked and sticking to his thick legs, outlining all of his features.

As Waylon washes himself down, Miles had his back turned to him, watching the chain link fence that separated the trailer park from the desert. The water is cold, reminding Waylon of darker times, but with Miles there, so close to him, he's not worried about anything, or anyone, coming after him.

Billy had absorbed the bodies of the men killed, only leaving behind bones and scraps of clothing, and red stains.

Dressed in clean clothes, Waylon sits quietly in the back of their van, softly speaking to Billy as he watches Miles raid the vans. Miles pulls rifles, equipment, misc items, throwing them out and around. Their own van was wrecked, too out - of - shape to drive around and stay incognito.

"Are you doing OK?" Billy asks through the radio, gently.

Waylon's head pounds still, pulsing harshly behind his eyes, body aching, but he's never been so thankful to be alive, "I'm fine now, thanks to you. How are you doing?"

"I could be much, much better. My mom is gone, states away, the only other person in my life tried to kill us, and Miles is mad at me. Otherwise, I can't complain."

Waylon holds the radio tight to his chest, "He's not mad at you, Billy, he's just _frustrated_ with....with everything."

"I know him, more than anyone ever will. Everything he feels is entirely understandable. That doesn't make me feel any better, though."

"You should talk to him."

Billy grumbles, "I know. I don't want to."

Waylon grins, "I think you'd feel better if you do. How are you two supposed to work as a team if there's bad blood between you?"

Billy grumbles again, sighing, "You're right. I don't like that you're right, but you're right," the dials of the radio flip back and forth in a playful manner.

"Park!" Miles yells from a few yards away, "You ready?"

The two had already moved their things to their new van, Miles peeling off the Blackjaw magnetic stickers. Waylon stands, almost slipping. He looks down, and see's the scattered, ruined pictures of the funeral.

_Should I pick them up?_

"Park! Let's go already!" Miles waves an annoyed arm.

Waylon takes one last, long look at the photos, before he clips Billy's radio back onto his belt, and rushes towards Miles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wwwwwwww action scenes r so fun ugh............my brain hurts tho i hate writing, motivations and plots......
> 
> almost made them grind in the desert but V____V didnt fit so good so i cut it
> 
> also tee hee billy is bad at handling stress and doesnt know how to control his emotions :) tee hee
> 
> also i dnt mean to make it like, seem like every woman in this fic Sucks because they dont but its like, i automatically make every minor character a woman bc im Lesbian Brain so eeeeee
> 
> enoy :) !


	39. Exhaustion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for: sexual content

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WWWWWW ok im so sorry this chapter is so late....it was me and my sisters birthday and work got crazy so this is super late Ah
> 
> i hope everyone likes it im :) finally seeing a bit more of the waylon before the asylum
> 
> tysm for reading :)

"Never heard of this place," Miles says, scrutinizing the address Wilma had written them, "How about you, Park?"

The two had stopped at a gas station a few miles away, to use the restroom. Waylon raided a small stand filled with state maps.

"I have," Waylon says, quickly counting 196 maps altogether, around 4 - 6 of each state (the store, strangely enough, didn't have any maps of Alaska,) "It's a couple miles from Pinewood," and his skin prickled with goosebumps when he says it out loud. _Would I be able to see the boys? God, how long has it been? Only two weeks?_ Waylon feels it's been years since he's been home.

He quickly grabs a map of Colorado, just as Miles is about to pay for snacks, slamming it down on the counter.

 _He's been gone fourteen days. Fourteen days out of my family's life I'll never be able to get back. Are they safe? Are they still in Pinewood Summit? Have they been following the news? Have they tried to call me?_ And Waylon absently touches the long - dead cellphone in his pocket. He thinks of grabbing a phone charger as well, but that would just risk them getting caught. _They'll track our movements through the calls._

He apologizes, in his head, to his family.

 

 

 

-

 

 

  
Waylon swats at a bug on his arm, halfway down the road, and his hand passes right through the insect. He stares out the windows, trying his damnedest to ignore the crawling sensations that cover his skin.

 

 

  
-

 

 

 

"It'll take half a day to get to Colorado," Miles says, cruising down the highway, "We'll stop for the night at the first motel we can find."

"Why?" Waylon bites. It's two hours later, and the two have crossed the Southern part of Nevada, quickly reaching Utah.

The whole time, Waylon had to fight to the urge to claw open his skin. He swatted at bugs that crawled up his clothes. Dastardly, dark green things that shimmered like jewels. _Beetles_. Waylon hated bugs. They flexed their wings, mocking him.

One crawled up the window, and Waylon slowly jammed a thumb on top of it, watching it flutter on it's way up the glass from under his digit.

"Because....we need to stop for the night? And I've been driving for the whole day?" Miles eyes Waylon from his peripherals, "What's wrong?"

Waylon shrugs, crossing his arms, "Nothing."

".....Want to talk about it?"

"No."

Miles shrugs, focusing back on the road. Waylon fruitlessly brushes a beetle from his shirt.

"Colorado," Miles finally says, forced out of him, attempting to fills the sharp silence with sound, "Destin County. How far from Pinewood?"

"Not super far. An hour and a half, going East."

"Ever been there?"

"No. We looked at a few houses online there, but they were way out of our budget."

Miles nods, "Rich area?"

"Rich doesn't begin to describe it. Big houses, mansions within mansions, multi - million dollar properties. We looked at some of these aerial shots online. It's a beautiful area."

Miles simply grunts in acknowledgment. There's words that linger on his tongue, Waylon can tell. They make it a few more miles, driving in silence, before Miles clears his throat.

"We'll stop at Tiffany Hope's place first."

Waylon twists his head to look into the driver's side. The late afternoon sun shone nicely, silhouetting Miles with a gold halo.

 

 

-

 

 

  
They pull into a truck stop with a small motel attached, in South Utah. It's cheap, ugly, but most importantly, incognito.

Having an attached diner isn't so bad, either.

_Thinks they have drinks there?_

_You can't get drunk, remember?_

Miles swears at himself. _Fuck, you're right._ He thinks of going down to the diner for a beer when they finally settle into a room, but is it worth the money? It'll satisfy the dryness that settled itself in Miles' throat, it always did when he didn't drink for so long, give him a comfortable placebo effect, but the longer he thinks about it, the more useless it felt.

The knowledge that he'll never get drunk ever again, Waylon's irritated demeanor, and the uncomfortable sift of Billy under his skin, considerably soured Miles' mood. _Billy_. He hasn't stopped chirping in Miles' ear the whole fucking day. He was visibly stressed, black smoke enveloping him in a way Miles hasn't seen before. Miles felt almost suffocated by the anxiety both men expelled.

He pays the dirt - cheap price for a room, a single, and glares when the desk manager gives him an odd look. The room is on the second floor of the motel. Miles carries their things up, Waylon in tow close behind.

The room is small, decorated with dark red wallpaper and a bed decorated in cream blankets, giving the room a sleepy look. As soon as they're both inside, Miles checks the locks of the door, closing thick cream curtains, letting the soft yellow motel lights blanket them. Satisfied that they're safe _(As safe as we can get,)_ Miles flops down on one side of the bed, tugging off his sneakers. It's not even late evening, but he is exhausted.

"Are you hungry, Park?" He asks. While Miles felt... _full_ (And it still feels gruesome to feel that way,) he's concerned with his scrawny companion. Looking over his shoulder, Waylon is sitting on the other side of the bed, his back to Miles.

"No," Waylon answers, short and curt. He's leaning forward, busy with something.

Twisting around, hiking one leg onto the bed, Miles leans over and rubs one hand on his shoulder. Waylon pays him no attention, but the way his shoulders move tells Miles he's frustrated with his something.

"I think you should eat," Miles insists with a light pat, "Long day, only a bag of pretzels to fill you up. You gotta be hungry."

Waylon shrugs his hand off. There's few seconds of silence, and then an exasperated, " _Fuck_."

Miles pulls his legs over the bed, laying sideways on his stomach, looking at Waylon's busy hands. They're shaking, trying to undo the laces of his hiking boots. Miles leans on his forearms.

"Do you need my help?"

He's met with anger, Waylon's flustered face, "I _don't_. I can do this, on my _own_."

Miles pushes himself up on his elbows, sitting up on his knees as Waylon turns his attention back to his laces. Miles gently slides off the bed, leaving Waylon to his task. _It's no good if I'm hovering over him. If he needs help, he'll ask. He knows that I'll help him with whatever he needs. Besides, there's no healing in babying him._

Miles uses the bathroom, taking his time. When he comes back out, Waylon's shaking fingers undid his boots, and they're tossed haphazardly along the shag carpet. Miles kneels down, picking up the boots to move them closer to the door. A hand shoots out, brushing against his beard. Waylon is staring at him, sadly.

"I'm sorry," he says.

Miles leans into his hand, "Long day, I know."

"But I really am sorry. Not just for my attitude. I could've done something stupid today, gotten us both killed."

 _Maybe not me,_ Miles thinks to himself. He wasn't even sure if he could die. Even an intense injury like a fractured skull could be healed, and Billy had healed plenty a bullet wound in Miles. Just how far could Billy's power extend?

Miles doesn't want to find out.

With a shrug, he closes his eyes, "I think you did just fine, Park. You know how to work the pistol now, and you don't seem like the type of guy to make the same mistake twice. Besides, how many times would we have been caught with our pants down if you didn't notice Blackjaw pulling in? You seem to notice a lot I don't."

A quiet pause, "I'm a lookout, huh?"

Miles grins, "A good one, too. You're the eyes of this operation, Park."

"What does that make you? The mouthpiece?"

With a laugh that comes straight from his gut, Miles glances up.

Sadness ebbed away from Waylon's eyes, leaving something a little more raw in it's place. Breaking the eye contact, he tilts his mouth into Waylon's palm, giving it a kiss. Waylon exhales through his teeth. Miles encourages Waylon's fingers to thread through his beard.

"You think I need a shave, Park?"

Waylon grins, "Don't you dare. I like it," his voice drops, "I like it on you."

 _Fuck, he sure sounds lonely._  Inching closer to Waylon, Miles doesn't rise from his knees. _Is it fucked up to come onto a man the same day you bring him back from the brink of death?_ His eyes flit from Waylon's face, to a slight bulge in his jeans, back again. _I wonder, do I look nice on my knees?_

"What's the verdict, Way," Miles is kneeling in front of Waylon's closed legs. He leans his chin on top of Waylon's knees.

Waylon doesn't hesitate. He grips Miles' shirt, hauling him up. Miles, unprepared for such a quick reaction, topples over him and onto the bed, just barely avoiding crushing Waylon under him. He begins to pull back up, but Waylon's legs wrap around his waist, pulling him down.

Chaste, quick kisses and cuddles were great, but the energy Waylon uses left Miles speechless. Waylon kisses him harshly, passionately, starving for contact. Miles kisses back feverishly, feeling just the same. He peers from the corner of his eye, seeing just a hint of black smoke slip under the motel door.

Sighing through his nose, Miles digs his fingers into the blankets next to Waylon's head, using every ounce of self control he had not to press all of his weight down onto the man. Waylon grips and pulls at Miles' hair, sucking on his lips and shoving his tongue between Miles' teeth. Miles shivers.

Waylon breaks off first, and Miles lifts up slightly, forearms planted. Waylon is grinning, teeth showing, wiping drool away. He cradles Miles' face, thumbing over his lips.

Miles' brain shorts out. He opens his mouth, looking for something to say, but he can't grab a single thought to hold onto. Waylon's face is handsomely flushed, hair messy, eyes blown out. Horribly, terribly, gorgeously distracting.

Waylon's legs untie themselves from Miles' waist, spreading. He lifts his hips, brushing them against Miles, and Miles groans at the contact. His hands move down, past Miles' hips to grab at his backside.

_One thing I can definitely say about Waylon Park, he wastes no fucking time._

"Miles," Waylon breathes, rocking upwards.

The way Waylon says Miles' name knocks the wind from his chest. He lowers his hips, and Waylon grips his backside tighter, desperate for more. Miles ducks his head into Waylon's shoulder, rocking down. The cheap motel room bed creaks with their movements. He kisses up Waylon's jaw, over the shell of his ear, lightly nipping. Waylon whimpers, and Miles drinks it in. Waylon holds his arms around Miles' neck.

Every word that comes to Miles' mind gets lost in quiet grunts. Waylon makes it a habit to ruffle and grab at Miles' hair, tugging and threading through. _Fuck, how's he know I like that?_ Miles presses his forehead into the mattress besides Waylon's head, and he feels hot lips sear over his neck and jaw. Miles moans, bucking down. _Fuck_. His hands trace over Waylon's legs, coaxing them to cross behind his own thighs. Waylon complies, giving Miles a more comfortable angle to rut down on.

" _Miles Miles Miles_ \- " Fingers dig a little harder into Miles' scalp, and with a loud yelp, Waylon's body jerks, hips stuttering. He holds tight, then falls slack.

At first confused, Miles braces himself on his forearms, looking down. Waylon is flushed, and dazed, chest rising and falling in shallow breaths. _Oh_. Miles watches Waylon come down from his high, soaking in the open - mouthed look Waylon had. _Christ, I've got it bad, look at him_. Waylon seems to be lost for two, three minutes, and Miles almost wants to ask if he's OK. Then, Waylon blinks, once, twice, slow, then his eyes bulge, his mouth snapping shut.

"Uh," Waylon swallows, "Sorry - "

"No, no, no, you're fine," Miles assures him, "You OK?"

"Y...yeah, sorry," he looks down, squirms. Taking the hint, Miles sits up on his knees, straddling Waylon's thighs. Waylon's hands follow, grabbing at his thighs, "Let me - "

"It's fine, Park," Miles slips his hands under Waylon's, holding them. He brings one up to his mouth, giving it a soft kiss, "I'll take care of it."

Dissatisfied, Waylon shakes his head, "S'not fair to you."

Miles smirks, "Oh, I think it's plenty fair, Park," he moves Waylon's hands down to rest on his thighs, "I got to watch you, now you get to watch me."

He watches Waylon's lips purse, eyebrows shooting up, grip slightly tightening on his thighs. _That got his attention._

"How's that sound, Park?" Miles hooks his thumbs into the belt loops of his pants.

"Sounds just fine to me," Waylon's voice wavers, weak.

 _Likes to watch?_ Miles files that mental note away for a rainy day. He wastes no time, and unbuttons his pants quickly, relief washing through him as he frees himself from the constraints of his jeans. Miles grips himself through his boxers, sliding his hand over his own covered cock, letting a light swear escape him. There's a damp spot from their grinding. He looks at Waylon, who's eyes are excitedly flitting from Miles' face, to his crotch, back and forth, like he can't make up his mind.

"Doin' alright?" Miles asks.

Waylon nods quickly, "Yeah, but uh," he clears his throat, "Can I see you?" He asks, meek.

Miles almost laughs, but instead settles for a toothy grin. _Wanting to see me, that's a step in the right direction_. He was going to just jerk himself off over his boxers. But, if Waylon's OK with Miles being completely on display, well, he isn't going to fight. He quickly tugs his underwear down, sighing as the warm air of the room hits his cock.

"How's this for a look?" He teases, and watches Waylon melt farther into the mattress.

"Just great," Waylon responds, almost dreamily.

Miles pumps himself, greedy, moaning. Waylon's hands move from his thighs, to up his sides, dragging over his stomach, down his arms, warm, almost comforting. The way Waylon is staring at him, not sleepy in a post - orgasm haze, but attentive, soaking up every detail and movement Miles had to offer, was _intoxicating_. He stared like Miles was the last man on Earth. Miles _loved_ it. Miles _loved_ -

Miles doesn't last long, just a few minutes, before he spills out into his own hand, over Waylon's shirt, mind blanking.

He tilts down to kiss Waylon, soft and tired, and he can feel a grin on Waylon's lips as he does. He rolls over, onto his back, side - by - side with Waylon, staring at the ceiling.

"You good, Park?" he says as he looks over.

Waylon doesn't move, his chest rising and falling slowly, a wide grin stretched on his face, face and neck flushed.

"Just fine," he says, shaky. He looks down at his shirt, "Didn't you just do laundry?"

" _Psh_ , yeah, so? We can just stick it in the sink, scrub it out," Miles carefully tucks himself back into his pants, still sensitive. He reaches into the pocket of his pants, taking out his near - empty cigarette pack and lighter. _Nothin' better than a post - nut smoke_. He offers one to Waylon, "You smoke?"

Waylon waves him off, "No. Lisa did, but I never picked it up."

Lisa. Lisa _Park_ , mother to Ben and Ricky _Park_ , _wife_ to _Waylon Park_. The sound of her name pricked up Miles' spine, settling at the base of his brain. He didn't know why he -

_No. No, I know why._

Miles felt sparks the moment Waylon kissed him back in Winona's apartment, and he'd be damned if the same fireworks weren't going a few moments ago. Waylon fit perfectly in his arms, against his hips, lips together, intense and....and _loving_. Even past the physical attraction, Miles couldn't escape the emotional connection they had. _Fuck_ , Miles tried his fucking _hardest_ to treat Waylon with the same amount of kindness and patience Waylon did him. No one fucking cared enough to _try_. But around Waylon, Miles could feel all of his personal walls crumble, like someone had stuck a C4 to them and detonated it.

Even worse, Waylon made it a _habit_ to break every one of them down. It was so easy to unload on Waylon, like he was _asking_ to listen, like he _needed_ to hear what Miles had to say.

He's opened up about his childhood before, to a very, _very_ select few people. When he told Waylon, he wasn't met with a pitied look. He was met with understanding. Openness. _Sorrow_. Waylon _grieved_ him.

Miles wants to believe, with _everything_ in him, that Waylon is attracted out of convenience, but he can't. Waylon's touches, his stares, _the way he fucking speaks to me_. Everything is honest and genuine, no act, no play.

It was.. _..domestic_.

Miles could vomit. _Christ, I've fallen. I've fallen fucking hard. For a married man. Fuck my life._

Whether he was allowed to smoke in the motel room or not, Miles didn't care, and he finished his cigarette quickly. He stares at the cigarette supply he had. _Only three more. Goddamn it._

"You hungry yet, Park?" he asks.

"I could go for a burger, yeah," Waylon says, sitting up, running a hand through his sandy hair, "Shower first, though?"

 

 

  
-

 

 

 

The bathroom is small, decorated with soft pinks and creams. It subtly smells of mildew, and Waylon grimaces. He undresses, leaving the rest of his items on the floor, but keeping his shirt and underwear in hand. He runs the sink, hot water steaming up the room, as he takes a small, unopened soap package, and scrubs out the stains he left behind.

_Christ, it's been so long._

Waylon can't shake the image of Miles' in his head. It's burned behind his eyes. Miles, all flushed, slightly tired, face twisting as he got himself off over him. He was... _.Fuck, I can't even begin to describe it_. Waylon was _starstruck_. Miles was so handsome, so comfortable over him, like he's dreamed of Waylon holding him. Waylon thought his overzealousness would push Miles away, but it only drew him in deeper.

Waylon liked Miles' smirk, his playfulness, and he was so careful and gentle, but didn't treat Waylon like he was broken. It was like Miles overwhelmed his senses, pushing away everything else until all that was left was the sensations of _now_ , pressing him nicely into the bed. Even after his.....quick finish, Miles made the shame and embarrassment he had melt away, like Miles was a flame and he was candle wax.

The way Miles made him feel, the way he touched him, spoke to him, it rocked Waylon's life and world. He's never felt safer, never felt like he's belonged anywhere else that wasn't in Miles' arms.

A nagging guilt in the pit of his stomach rises, eating him up from the inside.

Waylon elects to ignore it, focusing on his soiled clothes.

There's was a large, dirty mirror in the bathroom (and Waylon shivers at the thought of him and Miles together in the bed - _It's disgusting, who knows how long it's been since those sheets were washed - or even changed,_ ) and while he was staring into the mirror, it twisted his reflection, webbed and cracked, pierced his ears with a shrill ring. Small insects started to crawl from the cracks, black and shiny. _More beetles_.

Waylon was past afraid. He was annoyed. The longer these hallucinations went on, the more they etched under Waylon's skin. _It's been two weeks since I got out....they should be gone already!_ He shuts the sink off, wringing out his wet clothes, leaving them on an empty towel rack to dry.

_If I keep my eyes closed, I won't have to bother with them._

He fumbles around, trying not to slip in the grimy motel shower, finding soap and shampoo with less grace than he liked. The water is warm, and washes away the lingering feelings of blood and gore. The sound of the running water deafens the sound of the fluttering beetles outside the curtain to a significant degree. He touches his cheeks, running his fingers over his jaw. His face still aches, but as far as Waylon knows, nothing is broken or bruised. _Anymore, anyway._

He finishes quick in the shower, and though he despises it, grabs a towel from a neat stack on the counter, quickly drying himself off. He feels around the floor until he feels his jeans, and pulls them quickly on. He shakes the towel through his hair.

When he opens the door, he cracks his eyes open. Miles has already burned through the rest of his cigarettes, the burnt - out butts snubbed out on the empty, crumpled pack. The smell of smoke is heavy in the air, and Waylon crinkles his nose. He's never liked the smell much, but it wasn't horrible on his senses, just unpleasant. Miles doesn't see him at first, scowling at the ceiling. He glances in the corner of his eyes, the scowl dropping.

Suddenly bashful, Waylon pulls the towel tighter over his shoulders.

"Water should still be hot," he says, walking over and sitting on the bed.

Miles twists onto his side, arm stretching out. A finger traces down the right side of Waylon's back, following different scars Waylon hasn't seen - _doesn't_ want to see.

"Huh," Miles grunts, thoughtful.

"What?"

"You have a scar here," and Miles' finger traces more to the middle of Waylon's back, just off his spine, "And it kinda looks like a tree. Like a little, scraggly, fucked - up - looking tree."

With a snort, Waylon twists a little more, "A tree?"

"Yeah," Miles splays his hand on Waylon's back, thoughtful, then peels back, "Gimme ten minutes to get ready."

 

 

  
-

 

 

  
The diner is small, dirty, and packed with drifters. Most of them men, hats on and heads down. Waylon pulls his cap down in an attempt to blend in. _Hard to blend in with a crutch, though._ He keeps peeking out from the brim of his hat, following Miles close behind. No one seems to pay the two any mind.

They get seated, a waitress brings them two coffees, then brings Waylon the greasiest burger he's ever eaten. Waylon devours it in seconds, it feels like. Miles doesn't eat, and Waylon doesn't have to ask him why.

"We'll cut straight through Utah. Be prepared, we're not stopping, driving straight to Tiffany's place."

"Mhm," Waylon agrees, mouth full. He pauses, remembering their third companion, and swallows, "Hey, uh, where was...Billy, while we were....?"

Miles purses his lips, biting back a smile and a laugh, "Outside, I promise you. He wasn't watching, if you're worried about it."

Waylon nods, "OK," _Good_. That was one worry Waylon could safely put away. While Billy and Miles inhabited the same body, they hadn't complained of false - memories or shared thoughts. Waylon considers it lucky, as it could've been a much more traumatic and uncomfortable meeting of the minds.

They pay, go back up to their room. It's later, the sky now purple, edging into a dark blue. Miles hangs by Waylon's side, helping him up the stairs to the second floor.

"Quiet the gentleman," Waylon smirks as Miles helps him to the top, then unlocks their room door.

Miles, equally playful, returns the grin, "Only for you, Way," he says.

 _Only for you_. It's a joke, but it makes Waylon's heart flip in his chest.

Miles holds the door open, bowing in a mocking manner. Waylon laughs, walking into the room. It's dark, and Waylon flips the lights on. They were dim, barely allowing Waylon to peer into the shadow of the room. Waylon hears the door behind him close, the lock set.

And a pair of hands settle on his hips. They're light, like Miles means to coax Waylon to the side and move past him, but no such movement happens. Lips kiss at the space between his shoulders, at the nape of his neck.

"It's just me," Miles says, like Waylon had forgotten.

Which he hadn't. He could never forget Miles was with him.

Another kiss, this time through his shirt on his shoulder, "Feel like another go, Park?" Miles asks, more a mumble than anything, almost like he's too shy to ask.

Miles Upshur. _Shy_. Waylon could laugh.

"Sure," Waylon responds. He could go for another round, another five if Miles would go for it. That one relief, from buildup after buildup of stress and exhaustion, sent Waylon soaring over the edge. Waylon could swear he almost blacked out. He wasn't thinking of terror, of fear.

He wasn't thinking at _all_.

And that was the best part.

Miles moves them forward, and Waylon twists around, cupping Miles' face. The shuffle back until the back of Waylon's knees hit the edge of the mattress. Waylon lets himself falls back, holding Miles by the shoulder, bringing him down with him. Miles barely has time to brace himself, and Waylon relishes in the weight pressing down on him. He kisses Miles roughly, trying to pull him closer.

"Hold on," Miles breathes.

When Waylon slackens his grip, Miles pulls back, shifts down. Confused, Waylon sits up on his elbows, his whole body flushing when Miles slides off the bed, sinking to his knees. He sits up a little more, Miles' fingers clumsily trying to undo the laces on his hiking boots. His eyebrows crease, focused.

"Fuckin' laces," he grumbles. Waylon bends down to help, but Miles gently slaps his hands away, "I've got it."

With some level of difficulty, Miles finally undoes the laces, and pulls of Waylon's hiking boots. A subtle sadness creeps into Waylon. _Must be hard doing things you're so used to with missing fingers._

Miles sighs, quick, frustration leaving him. He places his hands on each of Waylon's knees, "Is it alright if I - "

"Yes, yeah, yes," _Of fucking course you can_ , Waylon wants to say. He doesn't hesitate. He's safe with Miles. He'd _never_ hurt him.

Waylon lifts one leg onto the bed, spreading his legs more, jeans tight. He feels his dick strain, trying to find some sort of release, but finding none. Miles palms at Waylon first, gently _(Too gently_ , Waylon wants to add,) as if testing an idea in his head. He keeps glancing up, staring at Waylon, watching for discomfort.

The room is so soundless, when Miles finally starts to undo Waylon's pants, the sound of the zipper is deafening. It's uncomfortable, to say the least. A thought pops into his head, and Waylon takes the radio off his hip, switching it on. It takes a few seconds of searching, but finally Waylon finds a station of 80's classics, and decides that's better than silence or harsh rock. He places the radio by the pillows of the bed, soft synths and lighthearted beats filling the silence.

Waylon's cock is pressed up against his briefs, making a tent, damp at the tip. Miles follows Waylon's imprint, squeezing with the thumb and forefinger of his left hand. Miles glances up, back down, licking his lips. It's contact, sure, but not full of pleasure like Waylon had originally expected. It takes a few moments, but Waylon finally realizes that Miles is testing his size.

"You OK?" Miles asks, but it sounds more like it's directed toward himself than to Waylon.

Waylon nods, "I'm good, keep going," he accentuates himself with a shift of his hips, up, more into Miles' hand.

Finding that an acceptable go - ahead, Miles pulls Waylon's briefs down. Waylon exhales as his cock is freed. Waylon doesn't think he's anything special - almost 6 inches, with a pale cockhead, on the skinnier side - but, _fuck_ , the way Miles is _looking_ -

For the first time, Waylon sees _hunger_ in his eyes.

Miles grips his shaft, giving him one, long stroke, up and down. Waylon bites at his bottom lip, leaning back on one elbow. The exposed bone of his hand is warm, solid, foreign but pleasant.

"You good?" Miles asks, quiet, slowly dragging his hand over Waylon's cock.

"I'm fine," Waylon says, hips raising to coax Miles' hand into going faster.

Miles complies, first pulling his hand away to spit into his palm, and the warm wetness of his saliva causes Waylon to inhale sharply through his teeth when it hits his skin. Miles picks up an even, slightly faster, pace, and Waylon meets every movement with a jerk of his hips. It's _still_ not enough.

"Miles, _c'mon_ ," Waylon whines out, frustrated.

Miles is watching his face, eyes black, his pupils so wide. He doesn't respond with words, almost like he _can't_ , settling for a _Hm?_

Waylon grits his teeth, "You know."

"Well, you're the boss, Way," he stills his hand, and Waylon ends up fucking into the tight circle, "Tell me what I can do for you."

And Waylon stops, only because he's _less_ sure Miles is asking to be careful, but _more_ so Miles wants to hear Waylon _tell_ him what he wants, like he's _asking_ Waylon to take control.

"I'm the boss?" Waylon parrots, staring down.

"That's what I said. You're the boss."

Miles' words come out as more of a rumble, and Waylon's dick twitches in response.

_OK.....OK, I'm the boss. I'm the boss. That's me, the boss. Mr. Boss - Man._

Not that Waylon has _ever_ been the boss in bed. He'd mainly go with the flow, follow a partners plan. He liked things soft, passionate, liked reciprocating, liked lovemaking.

It was strange to be given that control. Given _back_ that control.

 _I think I fucking need it_.

Waylon reaches down, brushing some of Miles' hair aside, forcing the words out of him, "Suck me off. _Please_."

The slightest of smirks twitches on Miles' lips, "Whatever you want, Boss," he says, and they was he says _Boss_ makes Waylon's whole body flush.

Miles wets his lips, and starts low, at the hilt of Waylon's cock. He kisses the space around, planting soft, hot kisses up until his reaches the head. He traces a vein on the underside with his tongue, and Waylon whimpers, biting into the knuckles of his fist, watching, legs trembling with excitement. Miles' eyes are closed as he swirls his tongue over the head of Waylon's cock, and Waylon bucks up at the sensation, temporarily lost.

"Sorry, sorry," Waylon says quickly, but Miles doesn't seem to mind, silently continuing to lick and suck at the sensitive skin.

Miles flattens his tongue on the underside of the head, and quickly takes in half of Waylon.

Waylon's moan shakes the room, hot wet heat causing his mind to blank out, pushing every other thought into a void. He reaches a hand down, threading through Miles' hair.

Miles' face is red, a vein in his neck pulsing. One hand in flat on Waylon's thigh, the other out of sight, but Waylon can see the flex of his arm. He takes slow, shaky breaths through his nose.

Waylon swallows.

"You're...doing really well, Miles," he says, pushing Miles' hair more out of his face, "You look so good..." Waylon's never been good at dirty talk, Hell, talking in _general_ during sex wasn't his strong point, but he still tries to force out a few words, some praise.

This is apparently enough, as Miles groans around Waylon's cock, reverberating up through his groin. He sinks his head down, pulling back, saliva and heat shooting straight through Waylon's spine. _Fuck_ , it takes _everything_ Waylon has _not_ to rock straight up into Miles' mouth. Miles moves both Waylon's thighs to his shoulders, Waylon crossing his ankles behind him. One hand grips his thigh, the other back to (What Waylon presumes is,) it's position between Miles' legs.

Miles bobs his head at a slow, steady pace, and Waylon lays flat, both hands carding through Miles' hair, trying to keep his hips against the bed. The classic 80's radio is quickly overtaken by the wet sucking sounds Miles' mouth makes, and Waylon's moaning into the air, brain so fried he can barely say anything that isn't a _Yes_ or _Miles_. Miles' mouth is so wet, burning, taking all of Waylon so _easily_. It's nothing over - the - top, but it's incredibly overwhelming, and Miles looks so _good_ doing it, Waylon quickly finding himself teetering over his edge.

" _Miles_ , I'm gonna - " It's barely a proper warning, but Waylon doesn't have the mindset to form a coherent thought. He pulls at the roots of Miles' hair, trying to pull him off.

Miles does, without resistance., hand taking the role his mouth once played, pace picking up faster. He's staring, flushed to Hell, lips swollen, saliva dripping down his chin, dim eyes almost black.

Waylon doesn't stand a _chance_.

His thighs tighten around Miles' head, back arching as his brain whites out, eyes snapping shut, mouth open as he yells into the air. His hips stutter, meetin Miles' hand strokes. Miles milks him through, almost into overstimulation, until Waylon let's out a whimper, and his hand stops.

Waylon collapses, feeling boneless. His chest heaves, exhausted, black dots dancing in his vision as he tries to focus on the ceiling. He hears a few moments of rustling, a few sharp breaths, and Miles moans loud, shuddering under Waylon's thighs.

Miles breaks free from Waylon's leg's clamped around him, and Waylon flinches, sensitive. He crawls up onto the bed, boxing Waylon in.

They kiss, and Waylon can taste sweat and salt.

The two lay there for who cares how long, before Miles reaches over and shuts the radio off. The air is heavy with sweat and semen. In his fog, Waylon notices cum tangled in Miles' beard. _How would he look, covered in my cum, breathless like that?_

"I think you need another shower," Waylon says.

"I think we both do," Miles agrees, his voice raspy.

They shower, Miles first, then Waylon. When Waylon exits the bathroom, clean and dressed in boxers and a t - shirt, Miles is waiting for him. He crawls into bed, exhausted. Miles body is warm, and his kisses him softly. He pulls the blankets over them, pressing his face into Miles' collar, the mark on Miles' chest warming him like a man - sized heater.

Waylon is barely in the bed for more than a few minutes before he drifts into a deep sleep.

 

 

-

 

 

  
**The mighty hill is gone, leaving the two standing in an endless field of black grass. Billy's smile is tight, less a smile, more a grimace.**

**" _Hey, Hope_ ," Miles says, " _You alright_?"**

**" I'm fine," Billy says, "I'm sorry, Upshur, for what I said. You don't like bringing her up, I know. I'm sorry."**

**Miles shrugs, " _S'fine_."**

**Billy shakes his head, " It's not fine. Far from it," he explodes into dust, appearing at Miles' side, closer, "I'm sorry. I really am."**

**Miles breathes in sharply, " _I should be the one who's sorry, Hope. You're just a kid. I shouldn't be saying that shit to you_ ," he holds a hand to Billy's shoulder. He's cold, like porcelain, " _I'm sorry for what I said."_**

**Billy smiles, shy, " Thank you, Upshur," He shrugs off Miles hand, "But there's something else we need to talk about."**

**_"Like what?_ "**

**" You and Waylon."**

**Miles deflates with a sigh, " _What about it_?" Miles almost said _What about us?_ But that would mean there was an _us_ between Miles and Waylon in the first place.**

**" He's married."**

**_"I know_ ," Miles bites.**

**Billy hums, but whatever thoughts he has he keeps to himself.**

**" He's handsome, and kind," Is what Billy says, but Miles knows he means _You could've picked worse. He's a lot nicer than who you've been with before._**

**" _You can say that again_ ," Miles says, sitting down in the grass. He picks at ashy stalks, watching them reduce to dust. Billy sits with him.**

**" How much do you like him?" Billy asks, crossing his legs, chin in his palms, reminding Miles of schoolyard crush discussions.**

_**A fucking lot. More than I'd like, more than I think he deserves, "It's not serious. It's like with the Langermanns, y'know? Just physical attraction."** _

**" But you liked Blake a lot more than physically, at one point."**

**Running his tongue over his teeth, Miles picks at more grass. _Wish you didn't have the ability to rifle through my memories like they were a scrapbook._**

**Being a journalist is time consuming. It requires a lot of time, a lot of energy, leaving Miles with less time on the dating scene and more on the cruising scene.**

**Because under all that hardness, under the scowls and the sharp tongue, Miles is _lonely_. There were nights out to bars together, him and Blake, late night takeout, going over articles. It was the closest thing Miles ever had to something _serious_.**

**" _I did_ ," Miles confirms, _but those feelings faded fast._**

**" Do you think he likes you?"**

**" _Of course he does, why would he want to fool around if he didn't like me?"_**

**"You know what I mean, Upshur ," Billy cocks his head, grinning.**

**" _Can we not talk about this?_ "**

**Billy makes a displeased noise in the back of his throat. His hands drop into his lap.**

**" Fine. But you'll have to at some point, Upshur. You need to be careful."**

**Miles almost laughs, " _What, think he'll break my heart?_ "**

**"I do."**

**Biting back all the harsh words that comes to mind, Miles picks at ashy grass, " _Well, I'm used to it. What's one more to add to the pile_?" He wants the topic to drop, like a hot coal in his bare hand, " _Who cares about what's going on with me, anyway? What's going on with you?"_**

**" You're so defensive," Billy scoffs.**

**" _Defensive if my middle name_."**

**" You don't even _have_ a middle name."**

**Miles flicks at Billy's nose, making his expression drop into a joking scowl. Billy bats his hand away playfully.**

**" You, Upshur....are a _jerk_."**

_**"And** _ **you** _**aren't the first to tell me that."** _


	40. Reunion at Tiffany's

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok......everyone ignore how long this took me
> 
> also i think i cried writing some of billy's dialogue lol, my empathy
> 
> also @ me when will u let miles go sicko mode. let him go crazy
> 
> idk what else to say Oof sorry this took so long
> 
> thnx for reading :)

A shake of the white and black world of Miles' headspace wakes him up. He cracks a bleary eye, his face smooshed into the cheap motel pillows. They never turned the lights off, the room bathed in soft gold. The curtains were closed. _Ugh, what time is it? We need to be out by one_. He turns over.

And Waylon isn't there.

He sighs, closing his eyes again. He can still feel Waylon in his mouth, fingers pulling at his hair, brushing the back of his throat, flushed and panting and wanting everything Miles offered him. His hips shift, hard in his underwear. He absently touches the spot where Waylon was the night before. It doesn't carry any faint warmth.

Miles' eyes snap wide.

_Waylon isn't here._

He sits up in the bed, head swiveling. Their bags are still propped on a weathered chair, and Waylon's boots are stacked under, next to Miles' sneakers.

"Waylon?" He calls out. There's no response. He looks straight.

The bathroom door is closed.

Miles jumps out of bed. He grasps the handle of the bathroom door, trying to turn it, but it's locked.

"Waylon, are you in there?" Miles can't stop seeing Waylon back at Billy's trailer park, lying unconscious, close to death in the dirt and blood. _I locked the doors, didn't I? The windows? Billy -_

_Billy was in the headspace with me, he wouldn't've known if someone broke in._

Behind the musky wood of the door, Miles hears a yelp.

Without hesitating, anxiety and adrenaline running through him, Miles takes a quick step back, using his momentum to force the door open with his shoulder. It gives, easily, wood splintering, the door swinging open. He expects blood, bodies, glazed and lifeless eye staring up, _locked in the last moments of his death -_

But there's nothing. Nothing but Waylon, shirtless, in his boxers, curled up on the closed lid of the toilet. His skin is pale, eye circles deep. Deep, pink scratches were carved into his arms. His hands cover his mouth, hazel eyes wide, frightened.

_Moron. Idiot. Stupid motherfucker. There was nobody here. No one was ever here._

"Hey Park," Miles says, whole body burning with shame, "What's going on?"

Waylon's hands slowly lower from his mouth, revealing a worrying, tight frown.

"You knocked the door down," he whimpers, _scared_ , barely audible.

The wooden door is almost broken in half, splintering. It lays on the floor, hangs from the bottom latch, the top latch twisted and dented. _Shit_.

"Get your things," Miles says quickly, stomach flipping, "We gotta go."

 

 

  
-

 

 

  
Miles won't meet his eye. He won't speak. He collects their things, Waylon barely getting his boots on before Miles is out the door.

It's barely six AM when Waylon jumps into the van passenger side, Miles slamming the back doors to the van so forcefully it shakes the vehicle. His scowl is deep and cutting.

It was strange. Miles looked more embarrassed than _Waylon_ when he came bursting through the door. Which Waylon _was_.

He'd woken up from a nightmare, a black abyss of torment and evil which Waylon wasn't sure he would ever wake from. He'd woken up, soundlessly whimpering, ghosts of tight grips and blunt weapons and shivs still stabbing, carving, _caressing_ him. Thinking it nothing to wake Miles up for, Waylon went to calm down in the bathroom. He didn't even register the long lines on his arms until he splashed water onto his face and felt the cold touch his wounds. He sat on the closed toilet, counting the tiles, trying to calm himself.

They drive in almost complete silence, the only sound Miles hitting the lock button on the arm rest of his door. Waylon is staring, staring, _staring_ at Miles, hoping, _waiting_ for him to say something. It's only been a few miles, but it feels like an eternity.

"Miles?" Waylon says finally, the courage in him building up to an almost boiling point. His nerves rattle.

He receives a subtle flare of Miles' nostrils, but no response. Looking at Miles' hands, his grip tightens on the steering wheel. The plastic cracks.

Waylon sucks in a hiss of breath, heart thumping in his chest. He swallows sour bile that builds in his throat. _Leave it alone, leave it alone, leave it alone, leave it alone._

"Why did you kick the door in?" Cold presses against his forehead, on his neck, and Waylon can't decide if Billy was attempting to cool his nerves, or giving him a warning.

The van jerks to the side, peeling off of pavement and onto dirt. Waylon grips his seat, trying not to be thrown around, heart leaping into his throat. _Jesus, what's gotten into him?_

Miles jerks the van into park. He switches the engine off.

But he doesn't speak.

Waylon's heart hammers so loudly he thinks it'll blast his eardrums out. Cold covers his ears, his forehead, neck, shoulders, trying to soothe. His grip doesn't slacken on his seat when Miles finally breaks the terrible, horrible silence between them.

"You wanna know what happened, Waylon?" His eyes don't pick up from the steering wheel.

The way Miles speaks, it cuts deep and cold through Waylon, like someone had jabbed an ice shard into his chest. Waylon's tight jaw slackens.

"Yes."

Miles exhales, pressing his forehead to the steering wheel.

"Don't laugh," he says.

Waylon waits. When Miles doesn't explain further, he swallows harshly, "I won't laugh," Worry overtakes the anxiety within him.

With a deep and shaky breath, Miles leans back into his seat, "I'm going to sound like a fucking moron."

"Whatever it is, I won't laugh, I promise," Waylon slackens his grip on his seat, turning more in his seat.

Running a tongue over his teeth, Miles sighs, shaky, "I woke up today, and when you weren't in the bed, I...." he shakes his head, "I fucking flipped out. I thought you were gone. That was my first thought, that you were _gone_."

Waylon's heart sinks low in his chest. _Paranoia got the best of him._

"When I saw the bathroom door was closed, I leapt up, and then I heard you yell when I knocked on the door. I thought someone was in there with you," Miles' voice trembles, like his whole body would break apart and crumble in his seat.

Tentatively, Waylon unbuckles himself, and lays a shaky hand on Miles' wrist, the only sort of embrace he can enact while they sit in the front of the van. Miles places his hand over Waylon's, keeping his gaze down.

"I didn't mean to knock the fucking door down - well I did, but I wasn't thinking with a clear head, I just - " He let's out an angry sigh, letting go of Waylon's hand, "Forget it."

 _Don't let him shut down_ , "No, tell me. What else?" _You can tell me Miles. You can trust me_. He clasps both hands over Miles'.

"I feel like a fucking idiot. You were on the shitter, and _I_ was shitting my pants thinking you were...."

Waylon didn't need to be a mind reader to guess what Miles thought, "What did you think I was?"

"I thought you were _dead_. That I'd open that fucking door and...fuck, don't laugh."

"I'm not, I'm not laughing at you," Waylon grabs Miles' face. He burns with shame, _anger_.

"I'm going to get us killed. It's one thing being impulsive, but with Billy...with what I can _do_ , it's," He gestures wildly, "Would you be shocked to hear I never gave a second thought about this shit? The strength, the disappearing, the invulnerability, never fucking thought hard about it, and I'm a fucking _moron_ for it. Shit, I knock over a lamppost in a busy street, or I accidentally push a a guy too hard and he fucking _explodes_ or something, _fuck_ \- " his voice raises.

"Miles - "

"I thought," he looks at Waylon, "I could control it," his dead eyes are glossy, "I don't know if I fucking can. I'm fucking scared of getting us caught."

Thumbing over Miles' burning cheeks, Waylon can't stop shaking, "You wouldn't. I know you wouldn't."

Miles' eyes screw shut, "Like, what if I can die? What if there's a time where Billy can't soak up bullets, and I'm gone for fucking good?"

"Don't think like that!"

"I - "

" _Look at me_!" Waylon yells, loud, drowning out Miles' voice.

Miles' eyes snap open.

Waylon inhales through his teeth, "You sound like you're giving up! Fuck, you knock one damn door down, and suddenly it's the end of the fucking world!" He's so used to Miles being the one with his composure together. Seeing him so.. _..despaired_ was disturbing, rocked Waylon's nerves like a ship in a wild, thrashing sea. He couldn't stand seeing Miles so devoid of his own confidence, of his hope, "You need to hold onto what you have, Miles! Are you just gonna lay down and give up and wait for Blackjaw to track you down? That doesn't sound like you! That doesn't sound like you at all!"

Lifeless eyes bore into Waylon, as if Miles were trying to sift through his thoughts. Neither of them speak, and Waylon doesn't know if Miles is thinking of a reply, or if he's just scared to reply at all. Miles skin pricks at the palms of Waylon's hands, painful, but he doesn't let go. His chest heaves, the yelling having knocked the wind from his chest.

Miles breathes, "I'm sorry," he says, quiet.

"It's scary, I know, having things you don't understand, I _know_ , but if you keep talking like that, then what's the point of using the powers you have if you're worried some nosy fuck on the street is gonna notice?" The words feel harsh as they leave Waylon's mouth.

Miles shakes his head, holding Waylon's wrists, hot white irons that make Waylon flinch, "I don't know, Way, I don't know."

"Then _talk_ to me," Waylon pulls Miles a little closer, hands and wrists numb from pain, "You're so used to holding everything in you're letting yourself fall apart from the inside out! It's not healthy!"

The harshness of Miles' face softens considerably, like a light has been shined within the dark recedes of his thoughts. He looks down, blinking slow, "You sound like my old high school guidance counselor."

"Then I'm not telling you anything you haven't heard before," he rubs along the stubble of Miles' face, watching the touches ease him, though it cuts at Waylon's fingers.

"I'm sorry," Miles says again, the subtlest of grins on his lips, "You're too fucking smart for your own good, you know that?"

 

 

  
-

 

 

 

  
And Waylon kisses him. Kisses him deep. Miles didn't expect it.

Then again, Miles didn't expect Waylon's belief in him, either.

And he wishes Waylon didn't feel that way.

_It would be easier if he was ready to cut and run at any time. We've built too much of a dependence on each other. Now we're in deep. Now I'm in deep._

Miles wishes, _wishes_ , he could will what he felt away, wishes he could stop everything in it's tracks before he could venture deeper and further into feelings that could never be reciprocated.

But it's too late. It's _much_ too late.

Because those feelings are already _there_.

Waylon leaves his seat, sinking low in the space between. Miles joins him, unbuckling himself. He follows Waylon's lead, letting him push him down onto his back, most of his body now in the large empty back of the van. Waylon is over him, straddling him, their lips never leaving the other's. Waylon's brows are creased, as if uncomfortable, but whenever Miles slackens his movements, slows down, Waylon seems to get frustrated.

"Way?"

There's no response, Waylon fumbling at Miles' belt. The next time he tries to kiss Miles, Miles turns his head, lips planting against his cheek. Waylon stops, peels back.

Nervous silence.

"Are you OK?"

"I'm fine," Waylon says quickly. His hands try to begin at Miles' waistband again, but Miles grabs onto his wrists. He see's with shock as Waylon's face twists in pain.

"This hurts?" His heart thuds harshly, "Have I been hurting you?" _Fuck the super strength, fuck it to Hell._

Waylon swallows thick, "No, _no_ no no," he grunts, "It's....I don't know how to explain it. You aren't hurting me, touching just...it just _hurts_. It's like...like glass under my skin, razors - " he cuts himself off, "It's not all the time, and it's not you."

Carefully keeping his hands away, Miles sits up, Waylon edges off of him, sitting cross - legged in the center, holding himself. Not in fear, almost like he was trying to comfort himself.

"I think it's another form of my hallucinations," Waylon says, "It didn't start until _after_."

 _After the asylum_. Miles exhales. _He's so open with me. Everything I ask, he fucking answers. There's no fight, no shutdown. He's transparent, to a fault. Why can't I give him the same fucking respect? What the fuck is wrong with me?_

"Is there a trigger for it?"

"Stress, closed spaces," Waylon shrugs, "Happens just because it can, like my brain's on a lottery wheel. It spins, and when it lands on red I can't stand anyone touching me."

"I take it half the board is red?"

Waylon nods, his brows then furrowing, and he shakes his head, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make this about me."

 _Rather you than me_ , "Fuck what's happening with me, Way, I think that's pretty important," Miles crosses his legs, "Do you snap out of it at all?"

"Comes and goes," his hand slides out, touching the edge of Miles' sleeve. He picks at a stray thread, fingers just barely tracing over the knuckle of Miles' hand, "It's gone now."

"Happens quick, goes quick, seems like," Miles flips his hand, Waylon's delicate touch tracing his palm. The tense air that stuck to his lungs flowed out of him when Waylon relaxed his hand into his.

"It does. Just a few minutes, but again, it could be hours for all I know. I only realize it happens when someone else is touching me."

"It hurt when you were kissing me?"

"Yeah," Waylon says, sheepish.

"And you just...kept going?"

"Yeah."

"Why?"

"I didn't want you to feel bad about what you did. It was just a door. That scared me, but that's not going to scare me off."

Two, tiny pinpricks connect in Miles' brain. _Waylon isn't a kid. He's not some scared, fragile thing I have to protect. He's a man. A traumatized man, yes, but he's more than what happened to him. If he didn't think he was safe with me, he wouldn't act like this._

"Can you promise me something, Way?"

"Mhm?"

He shifts, holding Waylon's hand, "You'll tell me if you get these pain spells, right?"

"Of course."

"I don't want to hurt you."

Waylon sighs through his nose, "I don't think I'm in any danger around you, Miles."

Their shared grip tightens.

The two return to their seats. When Miles starts the van up again, Billy speaks.

"You forgot my radio."

 

 

  
-

 

 

  
Waylon apologizes for losing Billy's radio as hard as he's ever apologized to someone before.

"It's alright, Waylon," Billy says, "I don't mourn it's loss."

"I'll get you a new one."

Billy laughs, slightly static, "I want it in blue."

The ride is long, mostly quiet, besides Miles and Billy throwing ideas on how to communicate with Tiffany Hope, and it's well into the evening by the time they come to Colorado. Waylon has a map of the area open in his lap. His heart beats like a jackhammer. He wants to go home, see his family first. _But Billy takes the priority. Him first, then I'll see my boys, I'll see Lisa._

 _Lisa_. Thinking her name sends a soft chill down his spine and makes his skin goosebump. His stomach turns with dread. _Will she know? Will it take one look, and she'll know everything I've done behind her back?_

His stomach turns again, but this time with anticipation. _I hope she does. I hope she knows. I'm...._

_I'm happy._

_I'm happy with Miles. I like the way he makes me feel. It feels right, like two cogs in the same machine, one turning the other, vice versa. We're a team. Partners. I understand him, he understands me._

He exhales, thoughts of Lisa and Miles being overtaken by his boys. _A lot can happen in two weeks. Where do they think I went? I should've brought something from San Francisco_. He eyes the copy of _The Little Stranger_ on the dashboard. _Ben would prefer a shirt or a mug...but Ricky would've loved a book_. Their tearful faces from the school are burned into Waylon's head. It hurt him to leave the boys behind, with only the barest of details, but they were safer with Lisa. Life on the road is no place for children.

Would it have been safer - easier - to have disappeared without a word? Let them think that their father left them?

As Waylon ponders, he mutters awkward directions to Miles. Soon, the strip malls and gas stations end, and forest and mountains thicken. He only remembers a fraction of the ride, and being in the passenger seat let him focus on the area around him. Thick pines and other foliage lined the long stretch of road they cruised down, blocking out most of the evening sun, beams of gold spotting through leaves, casting long shadows. He catches glimpses of deer on the side, feeding off wildflowers. Through gaps in the trees he could see pieces of large forest estates, white and blue paint and the big modern windows the rich favored. On this road, Lexus after Escalade passed them. Waylon can only imagine how their van must've looked in comparison, big and dusted with dirt, tires crusted with mud and _(hopefully not,)_ old blood.

The forest thinned out, exposing more and more of the large houses, long driveways, and clean cars.

"43....45.....47...." Miles counted the passing house numbers, "What was Hope's?"

"89," Billy answers before Waylon can open his mouth.

More houses, more wealth. Waylon thought them impressive. It made the colonial they had moved into in Pinewood seem small. He could clearly see in his mind's eye his family living in one of these large estates, more space and rooms than they knew what to do with.

Of course, Miles was there as well in this little bubble of fantasy.

And Waylon didn't brush the possibility aside.

"69...." Miles muses.

Waylon snorts.

"71...." He slows, watching the breaks in the trees, "73...."

Passing a few more, Miles pulls onto the side of the road, just before the next house.

"89," he says.

"Tiffany Hope," Waylon says.

"Momma," Billy whispers.

They both climb into the back of the van, changing into the nicest clothes they had, then exit. Miles hands Waylon his pistol, and Waylon tucks it into the back of his pants.

"Remember the plan?" Miles asks him.

"Yeah," he says, "Let you do the talking, keep an eye out."

"We should create a safe word."

"A....safe word?"

Miles shakes his head, "You _know_ what I mean, Park."

Billy quips, "Should be something subtle. Like a comment on the weather."

Waylon thinks for a second, then answers, "How about ' _There's a deer outside?'_ "

Miles and Billy agree. It's something one could pass off easily, and if Miles doesn't catch it, Billy will.

"She'll probably recognize us," Billy says.

"Yeah," Miles agrees, "But we don't know how she'll react. Hopefully she'll be willing to listen."

Miles fixes a pair of gloves on his hand, pilfered from the glove box of the van. They're thin, black leather, and luckily they aren't padded, so they easily can be confused with regular winter gloves. In the empty spaces where his fingers would've been, he stuffed with cotton from a first aid kit.

"Ready?" Miles asks.

"Ready," Waylon answers.

And in the back of his head, Waylon swears he hears Billy say ' _Ready_ ,' too.

 

 

  
-

 

 

  
Despite the twist of unease in his stomach, Miles walks forward.

Tiffany Hope's house - no, her _estate_ \- is as large as her neighbors', if not larger. It's white with black trim, slim windows, the body of the house almost cylindrical. It looked terribly out of place, but Miles knows from experience the rich care not for aesthetics, but to flaunt what they have. _Can't take it with you, right? Might as well_. Parked outside was a white BMW, evening light reflecting orange. The driveway was curved, creating a circle that met back at the beginning of the property, surrounding a fountain flanked by pink gardenias and other flowers. The fountain was dry, closed off for the winter.

Billy walks a few steps ahead. Miles can see him shake.

"It's so...so _her_ ," Billy says. He stops by the edge of the middle garden, fingers phasing through flowers, "She always wanted to start a garden," his voice dips into a croak, overwhelmed.

Miles holds Waylon by his sleeve, stopping him, then shoves his hands into his pockets, "Look around, Hope. Take your time."

And Billy does. For a few moments, he flits around the expansive, flower - laden front yard, streaks of white falling down his cheeks. He mutters to himself, wordless noise Miles can't pick out. When Billy finally stops, he sits on the high front steps. He wipes at his eyes and cheeks.

"I'm ready," he sniffs.

Miles bumps Waylon's arm, "Let's go."

He helps Waylon up the steps. The front door is large and sturdy, oak, Miles guesses, doorknob bronze and shiny. Above the door was a large window, curled around the door in a rainbow shape.

He rings the doorbell.

Billy radiates, body sifting with smoke, wavering slightly. He stands by Miles' side, hand gripped on his shoulder. Miles wishes he could give him any more comfort.

They wait, and wait, and wait. Five minutes pass.

"Maybe she's not home?" Waylon offers quietly, "She could be working."

"No," Billy says adamantly, "She's home. I can feel it."

"I doubt she has a job with what Murkoff was paying her, Park," Miles says, a quiet aside.

He rings the doorbell again. Another five minutes pass. Billy gives Miles' arm a shake.

"Ring it again," he asks. It felt like more of a demand, though.

As Miles raises his hand to ring the doorbell again, he could hear faint shuffling behind the door. All three of the men hold their breath.

The door opens.

Miles could swear he's looking at a Billy clone, Tiffany Hope looks so much like him. However, instead of empty spaces where Billy's eyes were, Tiffany had wide, blue eyes that shined in the light.

"Hello," she says sweetly, voice light, "Can I help you?" Her blonde hair was wet, and a towel hung over her shoulders.

 _Got her in the shower, looks like._ Miles glances at his shoulder. Billy collapses onto his knees, sobbing loudly, hand sliding down, only finding purchase at Miles' pants.

"Are you Tiffany Hope?" Waylon asks, making up for Miles' silence, which makes him snap back to attention, still feeling Billy grasp at his pant leg.

Her pale, rosy lips grin softly, like Miles had seen Billy do so many times before. She holds the towel by the ends. She's wearing a long robe, slippers on her feet, "I am. Sorry, but I'm not taking any visitors today. Come back next week, I'll have a slot open."

 _A slot_? Miles' eyebrows furrow together.

"Please," Waylon says, "It's important. It's about your son."

The sweet grin falls, replaced with a large, wobbling frown. Her blue eyes reflect the light wetly.

"My dear son?" She asks, voice cracking, "He's dead, what about him?"

"She _cares_ ," Billy sobs, "It's me, Momma, it's _me_!"

Feeling tears prick at his eyes, Miles bites on the inside of his lip.

"It's...." Waylon breathes, "We're sorry for intruding, ma'am. What we have to say is.....complicated. It's something you need to know about your son."

Tiffany's gaze snaps back and forth to the men, then she holds the door wider.

"Whatever you have to tell me about my dear, dear boy, I want to hear," she motions them inside, "Please, come in," If she recognized the two men, she does a damn well good a job hiding it.

And despite the growing pit of suspicion that digs at his gut and screams in his head, Miles enters.

 

 

 

-

 

 

  
The house is as extravagant inside as it was outside. The main foyer is wide with a high ceiling, a large chandelier hanging above, walls a pale rose color, large paintings of old houses and fields decorating the walls.

Closing the door behind him, Miles watches Billy appear at his mother's side. He strokes a slow, light hand down her cheek. Tiffany turns her head away with a shiver.

"Colorado is beautiful, but it's so cold," She says. She brushes her wet hair back, lips pursing, "My son would've loved it here."

"It's beautiful, Momma," Billy replies tearfully.

She leads them through the house, the kitchen located towards the back. The mansion was extravagantly decorated, furniture wood and leather, stone and glass statues scattered around. While Tiffany doesn't speak, Miles knows she is taking them on a tour, moving at a slow pace. _Doesn't seem to be in a rush to hear about her son._

The kitchen is wide and long, white marble countertop surrounded by expensive silver appliances. Tiffany glides to the corner, popping open the cabinets and bringing out a few mugs.

"Coffee?" She asks, giving them a soft grin. Instead of friendly, it sends an uneasy vibe through Miles.

"No, we just came to talk," Waylon says, "Don't break anything out on our account."

Tiffany eyes him, then returns two of the mugs to the cabinet. She turns on an instant coffee maker. Billy moves with her, like a shadow. Miles can't tear his watery eyes away. She motions to the chairs surrounding the marble island in the middle.

"Please, sit down."

Waylon sits without question. Miles doesn't.

She cocks her head, "Is your friend OK? I - " she scoffs, "Shit, I didn't even ask your names."

"It's alright," Waylon says, pulling Miles down by his sleeve into a chair next to him, "It was a long ride. He's still road - lagged. I'm W - .... Deagle Bright."

_What the f - Deagle?_

Tiffany makes a face, "Deagle?"

Waylon sighs, "Unfortunately," he pats Miles on his shoulder, "This is Stanley White."

"And you two already know me," Tiffany says with a grin. It falls quickly, "So, are you reporters?"

Waylon looks at Miles, swallows, shakes his head, "Not exactly."

"A lot have been coming by lately, asking about my son. Sorry, I just thought you were another pair of reporters."

With Billy standing next to her, the two Hopes could've been twins. Tiffany Hope was at least thirty, with a slim build, pale, but their faces the same shape, noses the same. Miles doesn't think he's ever seen a woman and her son look so similar. Even with Billy's muted and grayed body, Miles can easily imagine him with the same shade of skin, hair, and eyes.

Miles still can't shake his unease. _Tiffany acts like a grieving mother, sure, but an appointment to speak with her? Her just letting us walk in, not asking names, who we worked for. It doesn't make sense._

Billy floats to his side, whispers in his ear.

Waylon starts, "We're - "

"You used to tell him how lucky he was," Miles cuts in, "How lucky he was he looked like you."

Tiffany stands straighter, face falling. She doesn't speak.

"His favorite color was pink. Light pink," he looks up, "You made fun of him for it, called him a pansy," he can't help the venom that slips in his tone, "But he saw the flowers outside. You liked the color just as much as he did. It was his favorite, because it was your favorite."

Her hands cover her mouth, blue eyes wide. Her eyes watered, but no tears fell.

Billy whispers more into Miles' ear. Miles keeps his eyes locked on Tiffany, feeling the burning stare from Waylon.

"He used to collect things. Dead bugs, animal bones, rocks, leaves, whatever caught his eye. You hated everything he brought to you, except one thing," Miles traces a shape in the marble of the island, "He found a rock, with a flower fossilised inside. He tied a stray copper wire around it. You kept in on your keychain."

"How do you know that?" Tiffany asks, voice low, "Did you know him?"

Miles squeezes his eyes shut, looks down, "I - "

"This may be hard to hear, or understand, ma'am," Waylon cuts in, holding Miles' shoulders, "But Stanley is...a psychic."

 _A psychic_?

"A psychic?" Billy whispers.

"A psychic," Tiffany parrots. She folds her hands over her chest, lips pursing. She wipes invisible tears away, "My boy has been contacting you?"

Miles, for a moment, is speechless. _She believed it._

It's not the most extravagant lie Miles has ever told, but this _definitely_ takes the cake.

Forgetting her coffee, Tiffany sits across the island, folding her hands together.

"Please," she says, "Is he alright? How is it on the other side?"

Billy pauses, "Momma was never superstitious," he says quietly.

"He's fine," Miles says, "The other side is nice. It's peaceful. Safe. No one will ever hurt him ever again."

Tiffany leans back, "Oh, thank God! A - and he's here?"

"He is. He just wanted to tell you he loves you," Miles says, tearing up, "That he misses you."

"I wish I could see him one last time," Tiffany says tearfully. Miles can feel something off in her tone, but can't place what it is.

And Miles can't help himself.

"He brought us here, because he wanted to say his goodbyes before he leaves this plane forever, but he also has questions."

"Whatever you want to know. How long have you had this gift, Mr. White?" Tiffany asks, leaning forward, chin resting on the back of her hands.

"Since I was a child," Miles says quickly, taken aback by her question, "I was born with it. My parents mentioned a great - aunt who had the same gift. She died before I was born."

"Has she contacted you? From the _'other side?'_ "

"No," Miles backtracks, "But I'm not here to share my sob - story of a life, ma'am, I came to get Billy - and you - the closure you need."

Tiffany's arms cross, "Right to business."

"Not business," Miles says solidly, "I'm not looking for payment. I'm here to do what's right."

She eyes him, then Waylon, slowly nodding her head, "Whatever questions my dear son has, I'll answer."

Miles takes a breath, "He says he was captured by Murkoff. He went there to work as a janitor, and they imprisoned him. He wants to know if you knew."

Tiffany sniffs, "I got a call. From a friend, who had some connections out of state."

"Who?"

"She was our landlord, back in California."

The hair on the back of Miles' neck stands straight. He can feel Billy bristle in unison. _Lie one._

"So your landlord sent him off?"

"We both agreed that it was best for him. No work around where we lived," she reached into her pocket, taking out a pack of cigarettes, "Do you mind if I smoke?"

Neither men stopped her as she lit a cigarette. One of Waylon's hands travels down, settling at the small of Miles' back.

"Oh, I should've said no," Tiffany said with a sniff, "I should've tried harder to find a job out in California for him. But we needed the money."

"Billy said as much," Miles confirmed, not directly agreeing with Tiffany's recount of their landlord, "There's a lot about spirits people don't normally know, Ms. Hope. They can actually travel farther than their place of death, appearing in dreams as well as places. He was surprised to know that you had moved from Ridgecrest."

Tiffany nods sadly, "I did....was he scared?"

"He was, for a time. Scared, lost, like all spirits with unfinished business. He wants to know how you got this house."

Tiffany's grin turned tighter, "While my..." the grin fell, replaced by a wobble, "My boy was imprisoned by those.... _animals_ , I was receiving his checks. I saved and saved and saved, then I got a job here in Colorado. I came into a bit of money from a great - uncle who died."

Billy's fingers dig into Miles' shoulder, "We never had any other family. We were the last of the Hopes. Grandparents were single children, Momma was an only child."

_Lie two._

"I thought I'd get this house to be closer to him....there was so much excess."

"Was it strange you didn't hear from him?"

"I tried. I sent letter after letter. Called and called and called, but none of those motherfuckers answered. Not even a fake letter."

Billy shakes his head, "That's not true. Patients, doctors, they all got letters. They could never respond, but they got them. Some had them pasted to the fucking walls. I never got _one_. Why is she lying?" His voice croaks with hurt.

 _Lie three_.

Half of Miles wants to stand and leave before Billy's mother hurts him even more.

The other half wants her to admit what she's done.

"Strange," Miles leans forward, "Billy never mentioned a great - uncle. As far as he knew, there was no one besides you two."

Tiffany smiles, showing off crooked, yellowed teeth, waving a hand, "I didn't know, either. He was some long - distant relative who was a ward of the state. I inherited everything he had."

"Oh, this was his house?"

She shakes her head, "No, I bought it when I got the money from them."

"Them being.....?"

"The.....attorneys who handled his estate," the smile turned tighter.

 _A crack in her veneer. Probably not used to being grilled so hard._ Not that Miles was pushing hard at all. He just wasn't fazed by the _'grieving mother_ ' mask Tiffany Hope was wearing.

Miles simply nods. If not for Waylon's grounding touch on his back, and Billy floating by his ear, he would've called her out by her first lie.

"I'm sorry if I'm asking so much, Ms. Hope, Billy just has questions. Quiet a few, in fact. Too many that's reasonable to answer."

Tiffany leans forward, "I'll answer a thousand questions for my boy."

That also his a nerve to Miles. Tiffany always called Billy 'my son,' or 'my boy,' but never by his name.

"Was it true you tried to get him out? He saw these letters in passing on a desk, about a lawsuit."

Tiffany nods, "Right after the Mount Massive Incident tapes were posted, I contacted a lawyer," she sniffs again, with a tearless sob, "They tortured him! I wanted them to pay for what they did."

_Lie four._

"He wanted to visit you, did you ever try to visit him while he was at the asylum?"

She shakes her head, "The facility was closed off. They wouldn't let me inside. I - I was afraid they would kill him if I called the police."

_Didn't even mention the cops. Huh._

"Something's not right here," Billy whimpers, "There's.....there's something we're missing."

Miles is tired of beating around the bush.

"Did Murkoff pay you to keep quiet about Billy?"

Tiffany's eyes go wide, "Of course not!"

"So, what, they just sent you his pay out of the goodness of their hearts?"

"No, they knew I was his guardian and - "

"He was 19 when he went there. A legal adult. It should've gone to him, not to you."

Waylon's hand pushes a bit into his back. _What are you doing?_ He seems to say.

Most people will say the only way to fight a lie is to tell the truth. That's not true. There's a second way to fight a lie.

That's with more lies.

Miles leans back in his seat, arms crossed, "Billy knows you sent him there for the money."

Every softness in Tiffany's face hardens. The wetness of her eyes dries up.

Miles at least fights the grin he desperately wants to let slip. _Gotcha._

"You knew something shady was going on there, but they must've been paying a great rate, or you wouldn't have sent him there."

"Stop," Billy hisses, " _Stop, stop, stop_!"

"I was thinking they were sending you his pay to keep you quiet, maybe they sent you a threat or two," Miles glares at her, "But I think I'm wrong."

Tiffany doesn't speak.

"You were renting him out. Letting him get abused for a fat payday," Miles doesn't hide any of his anger, "You let that young man suffer for _four_ fucking _years_. Did you even know what he went through? Did you care?"

Her jaw clenches.

"Was it worth it? Was the perfect life for you worth his?"

Waylon's grip tightens.

" _Deer_!"

 


	41. Lakeside

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS FOR: GORE, GRAPHIC VIOLENCE, SEXUAL CONTENT

As soon as Miles mentioned Murkoff paying Tiffany off, Waylon knew they were made. But it was his own fault for allowing Miles to control the whole conversation. Waylon though that he would've at least been able to reign in how he felt about Tiffany.

The moment Tiffany started speaking in the kitchen, the air seemed to be sucked out of the room. He could feel the intense anger roll of Miles, and cold spots danced around.

Once he saw a black shape move across the back windows, Waylon knew the Hope reunion had to end, and that they had to go.

" _Deer_!" He yelled, the rest of his sentence lost in panic.

Miles reacts quickly. He grabs Waylon by the back of his coat, pulling him down behind the island. With a yelp, Waylon hunkers down, Miles shielding him.

Tiffany's head swivels around, and the back windows shattered.

Waylon's ears ring, dust and debris flying. _Did they throw something through the window? Did they detonate something outside? Is Tiffany still alive?_

He was still reeling from the situation. _No wonder she took so long to come to the door. She was alerting Murkoff, Blackjaw, and we walked right into her trap. Like a couple of fucking flies in a spider's web. She knew who we were the moment she opened the door, played us for fools. But what else could we have done? This was for Billy._

He can only imagine the pain and confusion Billy must've been feeling in that moment. Tiffany never denied anything Miles accused her of. _Didn't even try to fight it._

"You've got my gun?" Miles yells into his ear.

Waylon touches the handle in his waistband, "Yeah!"

"Stay here, don't move!"

With that, Waylon blinks, and Miles is gone.

He left his crutch in the van, his leg a little stiff from his brace as he tries to pull it closer to his body. He draws out the pistol, trying to turn the safety off, like Miles had shown him. With some difficulty, thanks to his shaking hands, he finally flips the small switch.

It was strange to have such a deadly, life - ending weapon in his hand. Something to protect himself with. Something to fight _back_ with.

The ringing in his ears subsides, and Waylon darts his gaze around, adrenaline thrumming hard through his body. Hyper - aware of his surroundings, he's almost distracted by every noise that settles. There's glass and broken wood, the neat and clean kitchen tile scuffed and cracked. In the shelter of the island, Waylon was left untouched. From behind his cover, he could hear the shuffling of debris.

A deep voice through a filter speaks, "Still alive," he says, "Get a medic."

Waylon freezes.

"What's the point?" A second, deep voice says.

"You got shit between your ears? You've watched the news, haven't you? Wouldn't look good on us if she died."

The second grunts.

"Find the Walrider," the first says, "It has that guy with him. That thing can pull a disappearing act, but a man can't."

"Copy."

More shuffling, and footsteps round the island. Waylon presses himself against his cover, heart leaping into his throat, the familiar vibrations of his fight - or - flight reactions pumping through his veins. A pair of black boots and pants come into view. The lower body of the Blackjaw agent slowly paces the kitchen.

_Stay here, don't move._

The agent leaves the threshold of the kitchen, entering the hallway.

 _Don't turn around, don't turn around, don't turn around,_ Waylon chants in his head.

The agent sweeps the hallway, opening doors, checking rooms, walking out of sight, deeper into the house.

 _He'll be back,_ Waylon knows for certain. Staying put was looking less and less like the best option.

Fighting, gunfire, all happened outside the broken windows. The unmistakable sound of men dying, flesh tearing, screaming, being cut off by blood gurgles. Waylon's jaw tenses.

He grips the gun tight, then tucks it back into his pants. He's no fighter, even with a weapon. A pistol is no match for the assault rifles the agents carried. He quickly peers around the island. Tiffany Hope is laying unconscious, face up on the tile. She's covered with dust, small cuts on her face. The first Blackjaw agent is over her. His gaze is still down.

_What is he waiting for?_

As the thought pops into Waylon's mind, a scream emits from a farther part of the house. The agent picks his head up, seeing Waylon.

" _Hey_ \- "

The agent's head blooms in a fleshy flower. Blood sprays out, dying the white cabinets and tiles, drenching Tiffany's unconscious form. A hot spray hits Waylon's cheek. hitting his shirt. The body gurgles and spatters blood. It falls on it's side, laying parallel next to Tiffany, who was untouched.

Waylon turns his head, to follow the sound of the scream, and Miles is staring at him. Waylon recoils on instinct. He's drenched with blood, bone and gray matter, hair sticking to his face wetly. Miles' eyes are.... _wrong_. Instead of their usual dull and dead dark brown, they're glazed over with white, like a thick fog had taken residence behind them.

" **You should hide** ," Miles says, but his voice is wrong. It's layered, like four different Miles' were speaking at once, pitching high and low, " **There's more outside**."

He was Miles, yet not Miles.

" **Waylon**?" 'Miles' ' head cocks, " **Did you hear me**?" He speaks with a grave, dark tone. One Waylon has heard before. But not from Miles.

Waylon's eyes bug wide, " _Billy_?"

" **Yes. It's me**."

Waylon can't do anything other than stare. He shouldn't surprised, as Billy has taken Miles' body over many a time before, but he can't hide his shock at actually _interacting_ with Billy through Miles' physical body. Waylon can't deny the shock that overtook him.

Billy places a bloody hand to Waylon's shoulder, " **I'm trying not to be pushy, Waylon, but you need to _hide_**."

Waylon nods, slow, and stands, stretching out his bad leg slightly, Billy helping him up. He reeks of death and gunpowder. Waylon looks down at Tiffany.

"Are you - "

" **You need to hide," **Billy says again, and his grips tightens just, _just_ , slightly on Waylon's arm.

"But - "

Billy makes Miles' face twist in an unfamiliar way, black liquid running down his cheeks, " _ **Hide**_."

Being in no position to argue, Waylon allows himself to be led into a small closet in the hallway. It's a three - by - four broom closet, stocked with cleaning supplies. Billy almost shoves him inside.

" **Stay here** ," he says, strained, hand on the door. His clothes are ripped at odd places, " **I'll come get you when -** "

Shots ring out. Blurred projectiles hit Billy in his side. Waylon yells. Billy is undisturbed, doesn't react.

He slams the door shut.

 

 

  
-

 

 

Miles wakes up outside. He doubles over slightly, overwhelmed by the world, stomach flipping. He coughs, spits, tasting metal. He stumbles, stands straight.

The front of the estate is carnage.

There were six vans, all crushed and flipped over, the flowers and fountain uprooted and destroyed, dyed red. Stray, mutilated bodies and body parts were strewn about, mixed with black clothing scraps.

Miles wipes blood from his face, away from his eyes. _How long did this take?_ He looks to the sky, seeing the orange glow of the sun hidden by trees and mountains.

"Hope?" He calls out. He almost slips in a pile of torn meat. He looks down at his clothes. _Motherfucker - I liked those pants! "_ Hope?"

There's no response.

Miles wants to feel bad. He wants to feel even a drop of guilt. He doesn't. Billy deserved more than a selfish, careless, evil mother like Tiffany Hope.

He heads back inside to find Waylon.

The front door was smashed apart, and Miles can't tell if that was from Blackjaw or Billy. The front steps are covered with gore, and he has to tread carefully so he doesn't trip and smash his head open on the stone. The foyer is red, blood ruining the expensive wooden furniture, and marring the beautiful paintings on the walls.

"Waylon?" He yells into the house. He doesn't bother lowering his voice. He knows there's no one else alive.

 _Is it bad to be so desensitized to it all_?

He meanders through the house, scanning the walls. It's no surprise to Miles as he realizes he hadn't noticed a single photo of Billy on the tour through. _Wouldn't be surprised if Tiffany Hope never took any of her son_. He enters the long hallway with a straight shot to the kitchen. Waylon has moved from his spot.

Miles tries not to panic. Tries. He searches the kitchen, finding a headless body and Tiffany Hope. He bends down, checks her pulse. _Still alive._

A sick, sick part of Miles wishes she wasn't.

He goes to the hallway, opening a door with a few bullet holes in the wood. As soon as he opens the door, something smacks him right in the forehead. Gritting his teeth, Miles stumbles back, grunting in pain. His eyes open, and Waylon is staring at him, a broom in his hand.

Before Miles can speak, Waylon drops the broom. He lurches forward, grabbing Miles by his face. Their eyes lock. Confused, Miles realizes that Waylon is searching for something in his face, in his eyes.

"Are you OK?" Miles asks, worry brimming in his voice.

Waylon nods without a word. He runs his fingers through Miles' beard, body slowly un - tensing.

"It's you," he says, in wonder.

 _Another hallucination?_ "Yeah, it's me. Who else were you expecting?"

"Did you know Billy can take your body over?"

"Yeah."

"I saw him. Talked to him... _.you_. How do you feel?"

Miles shrugs, "Like I always do when Billy takes over, pissed off, slightly sick," Curiosity takes over, "What was I...he, like?"

"You looked almost the same. Your eyes were milky white, your voice sounded like his. He told me to hide - "

" _I_ told you to stay put - "

"They were in the kitchen already, sweeping the house. I was out in the open," he sounds slightly dazed.

"Where's the gun?"

"I have it."

Miles' brow scrunches, "Why were you using the broom then?"

"I can't shoot for shit, like that little thing is going to stop any of these mercenaries. Their armor is too heavy," he sucks in a tight breath, "Where's Billy now?"

"I don't know," Miles can't feel the sift of him under his skin. There's no ring in his head, no voice in the back of his mind, no trail of smoke to follow. There's nothing.

Miles almost feels lonely.

Waylon releases him, walking into the kitchen, "Billy?" He yells out, "We're leaving."

"I wish she had killed me."

Following the voice, Billy is sitting cross - legged in front of the unconscious Tiffany.

"She used to scream at me," Billy's hands are clenched, on his knees, knuckles white. His greasy hair hangs in his face, hiding it, "When I did something wrong. She used to say these terrible, terrible things. She would wish she had smothered me as an infant, save her the headache," his voice warbles, overtaken with heavy sadness, "I wish she did. I would've died in the delusion of thinking she loved me."

The regret Miles wish he felt before came crashing down upon him, like a giant wave from a thrashing sea.

"Billy - "

"I hate this. I hate this existence. I was free thinking that she loved me," he picks his head up, "She's caged me."

"What's he saying?" Waylon asks, voice low.

Without responding, Miles kneels down. With a trembling hand, he clasps it over Billy's clenched fist. He is cold, but solid. A porcelain statue. Miles doesn't want him to shatter.

Billy's voice dips with venom, "Was it worth it? Was your own self righteousness worth my happiness?"

He explodes into dust, sifting through Miles' fingers. Miles can feel him settle in the base of his brain.

Then nothing.

 

 

  
-

 

 

"What should we do with Tiffany?" Waylon asks. He debated whether to ask or not.

"Leave her. Neighbors have probably called the cops. They'll help her."

Waylon can't fight the tightness in his chest as he speaks, "I don't think she deserves it," he spits it, like poison bile.

Miles doesn't pick his head up, "Not our decision," He stands, turns. His eyes are glazed over, glistening wetly. He pats Waylon's arm, "Let's get to Pinewood."

Waylon's heart leaps into his throat, swelling, choking him. They leave the house. He barely blinks at the carnage outside, following Miles' tense form. A van was flipped over in the driveway, directly in their path, and with an angry grunt, Miles pushes it to the side. His hand left a nice - sized dent in the roof.

_I can't bring this to them._

He stops.

Miles keeps walking. Waylon scratches at his arms, ears ringing. _I've already fucked them up enough. I can't bring all this home. I've done enough._

"Park?" Miles finally notices, "Let's go, c'mon."

Waylon starts walking, fighting for the words to come out.

"I can't go home," the words cut his mouth, his tongue a knife. He swallows, sharp pains running down his throat.

The hardness and anger in Miles' face doesn't fade, " _Why_?" He says, _harsh_.

Waylon spreads his arms, gestures to the chaos around, " _This_ ," Cold Colorado wind passes through his shirt, slightly damp from sweat and blood, " _This_ , Miles. We barely escaped by the skin of our fucking teeth," Bitterness seeps, the contempt he had for himself edging out, "I can't bring this to them," _It's already in their lives. I'm an anchor, weighing them down with it. A reminder._

The hardness softens, still angry, but not stoic, "This won't get to them."

"I can't take that risk. Not with my boys there."

Miles, hands in his pockets, looks down at the ground. He purses his lips, picks his head back up, "I said I'd bring you back."

"Doesn't matter what either of us promised," _I'll be back, I love you_ , "Blackjaw knows we're in the state now. This is two hours from Pinewood. These agents were here in less than twenty minutes," Waylon wishes the world under him would disappear and swallow him up, throw him into the deepest, darkest pit it could find, "Tiffany might've called, or they were just here already," _Useless, worthless, cowardly,_ "You think they won't have people staking out my house?"

He sees the flex of Miles' tongue run under his lip, over his teeth. _He knows I'm right. As much as I fucking hate it, I'm fucking right._

Without a word, Miles turns on his heel, heading down the long driveway to the van.

_I wish I wasn't._

He follows.

They both climb into the van in silence. Miles starts it, starts driving. He doesn't say anything, at first, driving down the long stretch of road going.....somewhere. _Anywhere_. Police cruisers and ambulances speed down on the other side of the road. They both hold their breath as they pass. Waylon doesn't know if he wants Tiffany Hope to be found or not.

They drive, drive, drive, going South. Eyes focused down, on his hands, nails digging into his palms, leaving red crescent marks, Waylon looks at Miles. The man's clothes are torn to shreds, staining the seat he's sitting in. His eyes are glazed over. _He looks like he's barely holding on by a thread._

An idea pops into Waylon's head. He opens up the map in his lap.

"There's a Walmart a couple minutes away. Is it OK if we stop?"

Miles doesn't respond with more than a slow, quiet nod.

 

 

-

 

 

  
First, Miles stops at a gas station, and Waylon wipes away the blood on his skin in the single - person bathroom. Waylon is successful at clearing his face and next, but the blood on his white shirt definitely will never come out, so he zips up his canvas jacket. Then they head to the Walmart.

Waylon spends part of his last $30 on a large blanket, two bottles of bleach, a pack of dish rags, and a new pocket radio for Billy. He uses his change next door, at a liquor store, and buys a twelve pack of the cheapest beer he can find. It's no longer evening, the sun almost completely set, light overtaken by purple and dark blue, smattering of stars on the colored canvas above. He throws the items into the back, strapping himself into his seat. He pops open the map of Colorado.

"OK, now we can keep heading West."

Miles, visibly drained, nods. It breaks Waylon's heart.

A small, shiny green beetle crawls over the map in Waylon's lap. He grimaces, turning the map over, watching the beetle fall onto the van floor, and scurry off.

They drive for a while, Waylon giving directions. They pass Pinewood, and Waylon can feel his skin itch and crawl as they do.

He wishes it wasn't like this. He wishes he wasn't a burden on the family he loved, and the people he knew. He knows that even if, one day, he can return home, he'll never be the same. He'll always be a paranoid, traumatized mess. _That's not something kids need to see._

_They're better off._

"Here, make a right."

Miles pulls off the paved road, tires rolling against dirt and rocks. The forest road is wide enough for cars to pass each way at the same time. Another half hour, deeper and deeper into the forest. Sunlight was completely swallowed up by the night. The moon is a quarter full. Rays of moonlight poke through the canopy of the trees, hitting spots on the dirt, turning them white.

"Pull to the left."

Miles does, and pulls into a clearing. There's scattered wood tables and benches, fire pits, an old and rickety outhouse, surrounded by trees. A large, crescent - shaped lake sits still past the shore.

"Camping spot?" Miles says, the first words he's spoken in hours.

"Yeah. It's too cold for camping, so we should be alone," When the Parks had first moved to Colorado, Lisa and he had made a detour, and found this little campground. He and Lisa sat on one of the benches, watching the boys fight each other with sticks and skip rocks across the lake. The memory lodges itselft in Waylon's throat.

"Lucky us."

They pull over into a spot of gravel. Waylon flips on the inner car lights, jumping in the back and rifling through his Walmart bags.

"What are we doing here?" Miles asks.

"A better spot than any," Waylon says, "Can't be seen covered in blood anywhere, can we?"

Miles looks down at his ripped shirt, pulling at threads, "Take a dip in the lake, scrub everything off....people probably won't come for weeks."

"And it's not near Pinewood, or Destin. Blackjaw and Murkoff are either going to think we're already scoping Pinewood out, or we've fled Colorado," he heaves the beer up into the front seat, "Thirsty?"

Miles' eyebrows raise, "Beer? Are you serious?" Not angry, surprised.

Waylon's heart flutters slightly in his chest, only responding with a smirk.

Doesn't take much for Miles to leave his seat. Waylon takes his jacket off, throwing it into the backseat. It's freezing outside, but that canvas jacket is the only one he has. He opens the pack of rags, dumping bleach onto the driver's seat. Miles watches him, almost curious.

"I've got this," Waylon says, looking over, "You take off your clothes. Leave all of it on the shore, don't let the water touch it."

Miles eyes him one more time, before moving away, taking the beer case with him. _Good. You and Billy sit back. I've got this._

By just the lights of the van, and the light of the moon, Waylon bleaches down the seat like a madman. His eyes water, and his nostrils burn by the time he's finished, and all that's left behind is a slightly darker stain than the rest of the seat. He throws the near - empty bleach bottles down into the dirt, the ruined dish rags following. Wiping his forehead, the cold Colorado air doesn't seem so bad as it blows through his sweat - soaked shirt. He looks behind, seeing Miles watching him, sitting at one of the wooden picnic tables. In the time Waylon had taken (and Waylon guesses it at more than an hour,) Miles has finished most of the case. He's still dressed.

"What are you doing?" Waylon asks.

Miles shrugs, a smirk being seen through the now crusted blood and matter, "Just enjoying the view."

 _I know he's not talking about the lake and the moon_. Waylon scoffs, taking the rags, wringing out excess bleach and blood. He looks at the lake. The moonlight reflects beautifully against the dark water _. It looks so peaceful out here at night. Almost lonely._

"How's Billy doing?" Waylon asks, "Is he around?"

Miles shakes his head, "Haven't seen him. I don't know," his voice dips low.

"Nothing?" Waylon furrows his brows, worried.

"Nothing," Miles confirms bitingly.

_Later. I'll ask him later._

Miles inhales sharply, "I'm starting to smell. Time for a dip."

He stands, tearing off his already tattered clothing, throwing the scraps into the dirt. He takes the last dishrag, walking towards the water's edge as he does. He stops, at the sand, bending down. His shoes, pants, underwear, all gone. His olive skin catches the silver light.

Waylon takes a deep breath. _Not so lonely anymore I guess._

Miles steps one foot into the water, " _Fuck_ , that's cold!" He wades through the dark water, to his ankles, "I don't have to worry about crocs and shit, right?"

"Just fish, promise," Waylon responds.

"There better only be," Miles wades farther, to his thighs, "Should - " he looks over his shoulder, stopping, "What're you doing?"

"Uh..." Waylon shrugs, "Enjoying the view?"

A crooked grin catches the moonlight, Miles' motioning towards him, "Not gonna join me?"

"No, no I don't think so, Miles," He shivers, and he can't tell if it's from the cold or not. _Besides, someone has to keep watch._

"Suit yourself," Miles turns back, and wades farther out, to his hips.

Waylon collects the clothing scraps Miles left behind, piling them up into one of the fire pits. _Miles was right about the smell._ Waylon's skin crawls. _I know the smell too well, Merry Hell._ He takes Miles' sneakers, scrubbing out blood with what was left of the bleach. It's his only pair. As soon as his task is done, he sits, taking Miles' spot on the bench. He cracks open one of the two beers Miles hadn't opened.

For a while, he sits and watches. Miles dunks himself in the water, scrubbing at his skin. It's quiet, nothing but the wind whistling through the trees. The moonlight glittered as the water of the lake rippled with Miles' movements. While the scene itself is peaceful, Waylon nervously eyes some of the trees. _We'd hear vans if they pulled up, wouldn't we?_

"Hey, Park?" Miles calls out. His voice carries loudly on the water.

"Yeah?"

"You mind grabbing me a beer?"

Quickly finishing his, Waylon grabs the last can. He limps down to the shoreline. Miles wades closer to him, stepping out of the water. Closer now, Waylon can see most of his defined, soft body. The mark on his chest glows very faintly, barely the light of a small candle, the ash around smeared. Miles' wet skin shines silver, his wet hair pushed back.

Waylon holds the beer out. Miles holds his wrist, closing his hand over the can.

"Didn't want it. Just wanted to find a reason to get you over here," He steps closer, holding Waylon's hand close to his chest. His body is ice cold, dripping with water.

"Could've just asked for a kiss," Waylon steps slightly into the water, their noses brushing together.

"Can I have one, then?"

Waylon tips down, kisses him softly. His lips are free of blood, soft from the water.

"Thank you, Park. That psychic shit was quick thinking. Even if she knew, you took charge. I fuckin' froze."

Waylon shakes his head, grinning slightly, "Can't expect you to always be your usual charming self."

Miles chuckles, "And thank you for the beer," Miles tightens his grip slightly on Waylon's hand, and the can, "You should let me pick the brand out next time, though. The one you picked tasted like swill."

"Doesn't all beer?"

Miles laughs, kisses him again. He hums, low, almost a rumble.

"Come in with me, Park," Miles asks softly, "The water's fine."

"Beer and skinny dipping is your idea of a good time?" Waylon feels a blush creep up his cheeks and neck.

"It's only _technically_ skinny dipping if we're both naked," Miles smooths his hand down Waylon's back, grabbing at his backside, pushing their hips flush together, "Unless you wanna try."

"I don't know," He smiles, "I was about to start a fire."

"Wow Park, you really know how to charm a guy."

"I was actually gonna burn the clothes from today."

Miles laughs, "Even better. Lead the way, Boss."

They climb up the shore. Miles goes to the van, coming back with the large blanket. Waylon collects the empty beer cans, piling them into the case, tossing it to the ground. Waylon goes around the campground, grabbing dry leaves and small sticks, piling them into the fire pit. Miles lays out the blanket on the picnic table, climbing on top. He opens his hand, handing Waylon his lighter.

Lighting a dry leaf, Waylon waits for the flame to grow large on the small surface, and he throws it down into the pit. _Fwoom_. The dry leaves and small branches catch quickly.

"I'll be right back," Waylon says. He goes back to the van, changing into a new shirt, receiving his canvas jacket. He picks up the new pocket radio.

He plays with the dials, turning the volume up, "Billy?" He knows Billy doesn't reside in electronics, but every time Waylon called, he always answered.

This time, however, only silence responds.

He kneels down in the back of the van.

"You know he cares about you," he says to the radio, "I think Miles is a little....brash in the way he handles things, but he thinks what he's doing is right, even if he's wrong to everyone else."

He looks up to the moon.

"You're one of the only people he can trust. He's...." He sighs, "A lot of people in his life have let him down. He's just trying to do what he wishes people would've done for him," _It's not technically talking behind Miles' back if Billy isn't actually listening, right_? "Even though you aren't....alive, anymore, Miles treats you like you are. He's trying to do right by you, even if he fails, and even if it doesn't feel that way."

He pauses, more silence following.

"But you aren't listening, anyway. You're...asleep? Do you even sleep?" He sighs, "Well. See you in the morning. You can bug me whenever if you want to talk, even if I'm asleep," He shuts the radio off. He bunches his bloodied shirt.

He walks back to the fire. He throws his ruined shirt into the flames. When he turns around, Miles is laying on top of the blanket, stretched over the table, leaning his cheek into his palm.

"How're you feeling?" Waylon asks him.

"Could be better," He pops open the last beer, holding it out.

Waylon is pretty sure he's never needed a drink more badly in his whole life. He almost downs it the moment it touches his palm, the drink so cold he barely registers the taste. When it's empty, he crushes it in his hand, throwing it to the dirt. Miles dips his fingers into the waistband of his jeans, pulling him closer to the bench.

 _Probably a bad idea to fool around right now. It's probably a really,_ really _bad idea._

Waylon runs his hands down Miles' body.

His olive skin looks beautiful in the firelight. Miles is handsome in general, but Waylon thinks he looks especially nice with the combination of the white moon, and the orange and yellow firelight bouncing off the shine of his wet skin. His skin is blazing hot, expelling the cold air. There's a slight give to his stomach, and Waylon squeezes it, tracing down the very slight definition. There's thick, dark hair over his legs, chest, and abdomen, dipping low from his bellybutton. Waylon runs his hands through the hair above his pelvis. Scars of different sizes cover his skin.

Miles grins, "How do I look, Boss?"

"Beautiful," Waylon says, with no amount of hesitation.

Miles sighs, tilting his head back, throat on display. Waylon pauses, then runs his other hand over his neck. Miles' Adam's apple bobs under his fingers. He traces down the lines of his neck, his collarbone, stopping at the top of his mark. Goosebumps fleck over Miles' skin.

"Cold?" Waylon asks.

"Not even close," Miles says.

Waylon eyes him carefully, then takes a tentative step onto the bench seat. He kneels on top of the table, over Miles. He can see a smile on Miles' face. _That's what I like to see._

"Are you cold, Boss?"

Wordless, Waylon shakes his head.

Miles scoffs, "No, see, this is the part where you say, ' _Yes_ ,' and I say ' _Let me warm you up_ ,' and then completely ravish you - "

While he speaks, Waylon slides his hands over his thighs. He plants his good knee between Miles' legs, shifting slightly against him, taking pressure off his other. Miles' is half - hard, making its way there.

"Park?"

"Hm?" Waylon looks up. Miles' eyes are half - lidded.

"C'mere."

Waylon leans down. Miles is all but happy to let him loom over his body, his tall and thin frame shielding him from the outside.

Waylon can't place the feeling, but it aligns with a newfound confidence within him. He's not exposed, Miles isn't asking for anything, letting Waylon set the pace, _making_ him set the pace. Waylon hesitates, then cups Miles, and he makes the sweetest noise Waylon has ever heard. He kisses him, swallowing up every sound he makes. Miles' cock is hot in his hand, rigid and reactive. He strokes him, nice and slow, Miles' hands roaming over his shoulders.

Miles breaks, sucking in cold Colorado air, "Waylon - "

Thinking back to the motel, Waylon squeezes slightly harder, jerking faster, in a small attempt to replicate what Miles liked. He twists his grip over the head. Miles lifts from the table slightly, grabbing Waylon's collar, pulling him down.

"Fuck....fuck _me_ ," Miles huffs, " _Boss_ \- "

The way Miles calls him _Boss_ makes Waylon's blood run hot. _I'm the boss. I'm the boss._

He slows his hand, watching Miles scowl. He takes a deep breath, shuffling over him, straining in his pants.

Miles shifts his hips up, trying to encourage Waylon into moving his hand faster again, " _C'mon_ \- "

 _I'm the boss_ , "It's alright, I've got you," Waylon says, his voice as light as the air. It's untouched, strange territory that flicks over Waylon's skin, like electricity.

Miles shivers, hips leaning back down. Waylon ghosts his lips over his neck, kissing down a pulse he can't feel, hands run over his shoulders.

Hands dive under his jacket, roaming up his bare back. Miles' touches burn slightly.

 _Hell_. _Fucking Hell. Shit. Shit shit shit._

"Park - " Miles hisses, "Boss, please, c'mon, I can't take this teasing shit."

Waylon gives in. He picks his pace up, and Miles thrusts in tandem. With barely audible, strangled moan, Miles comes, holding onto Waylon like his life depended on it. Waylon tries to sit up, but Miles keeps him close and tight, fingers burning. After the waves of pleasure had run their coarse through his body, Miles relaxes, tension replaced with a different, softer energy.

With a sigh, Miles finally releases him, and Waylon exhales at the loss of the burn. Miles' hands start to catch at his waistband, but Waylon pulls back, turns on his side next to him.

"Not tonight," Waylon says. He forces his hand between his jeans and Miles' hand, skin white - hot.

"What?" Miles says, sitting up on one elbow.

"I'm not...." He can't get the words out. He sighs, almost angrily, through his nose, "I don't want to."

Miles stares, for a few moments, piecing together some picture in his head, "OK," his tone is light, _understanding_.

They lay in silence. Waylon turns on his back, staring up at the sky, "I think we should go to bed."

Miles agrees. Waylon puts out the campfire, collects the blanket from the table, Miles close behind him as they walk to the van. They settle in, using their duffles as pillows. Miles pulls on a spare shirt and boxers. Deciding it's too cold to wear anything else, he keeps his outfit on, and he wraps his arms around Miles, pulling the blanket over them and pulling the man into his coat, relishing in the warmth he expels. Skin doesn't touch, and Waylon exhales at that.

"How're you feeling?" He asks, carefully brushing at a bit of Miles' hair out of his face.

Miles is quiet. Waylon can barely feel his shallow breaths against his chest. _Is he asleep?_

"Angry," Miles answers softly, "Guilty," his hands bunch at the back of Waylon's coat, "I should've kept my mouth shut. _Fuck_ , is he pissed at me."

Waylon brushes a comforting hand over Miles' back _. Let it all out. Talk to me._

Miles' head buries into Waylon's chest, muffling his words, "I usually feel him, like, move around in me. A gust of wind, words, ringing in my head, _something_ that let's me know he's there. There's _nothing_ , Way, like he's not even here."

"Think you and him are gonna talk?"

"I don't know. He's never been quiet for so long."

Waylon's eyebrows shoot up, looking down, "You don't think he stayed at Tiffany's house, do you?" _There's no way to get anywhere near that place now._

"No. I felt him come back into me. He's still here, but he's sulking," Miles sighs, in anger. His body tenses again, "Whatever. It happened, and I have to deal with it. I'll see what happens tonight," his bare legs tangle with Waylon's covered ones, "Goodnight, Park."

The wind rustles the trees outside, making them sway in the wind as Miles falls limp against Waylon. He stares at the moon outside, sleep escaping him as anxiety rakes over his nerves.

 

 

  
-

 

 

  
Sleep still escapes him an hour later. Anxiety settles like a rock in his gut, forcing him to stay awake, dreading his dreams and the pain that usually followed them. The moon is still high in the sky, casting white light into the van. Waylon attempted to count the distant leaves, losing track every few seconds thanks to the cold Colorado wind. Frustrated, he stares at the ceiling of the van.

In his arms, Miles stirs.

Waylon looks down, seeing his face twist. He resists against Waylon's hold on him, muttering.

 _Sounds like a bad dream._ Quickly, Waylon releases him, sitting up, his back to the passenger seat. _Don't touch him, don't touch him. Waking him up might make him panic._

Miles doesn't so much as thrash, but shift, like he was mimicking the movements he was making in his dream. His teeth grit, head lolling side to side. It was strange to watch. It looked less like Miles was having a nightmare, but more an intense conversation with a dream partner. With a sharp gasp, he jolts up. His back to Waylon, he breathes quick and shallow breaths, hands bunched at the blanket. He doesn't speak.

Waylon exhales, shaky. He eases onto his knees. He slowly places a hand on Miles' shoulder, shifting closer.

"Bad dreams?" Waylon asks him. The muscles under his hand tense as Miles turns deathly still. Waylon, in turn, freezes, pulls his hand away. _Still dreaming?_

Miles' head turns.

Milky white eyes stare, reflecting the moonlight.

Unsure of how to react, Waylon doesn't move, his mouth hanging open slightly as his brain searches for his words.

"Hi," he finally forces out, "Hi Billy."

" **Did you mean what you said**?" Billy asks quietly, " **That I could talk to you whenever I wanted**?"

Waylon nods so hard he thinks his head might fly off his neck. _He heard me_ , "Of course I did."

Billy turns his body, facing Waylon. He pulls his legs up to his chest, crossing his arms over his knees.

 **"I want to talk**."

"Do you want to go outside?"

" **No. I want to talk here**."

"Is...Miles awake?"

" **It's not like how it usually is with me. He does not become a cloud of nanotech when I am in control of his body. I simply overtake his mind, replace his consciousness with my own. He's in a sleeping state, suppressed** ," Billy pauses, frown deepening, " **I want to talk about him**."

Waylon sits, crosses his legs, "Whatever you want to say, I'm here to listen."

And listen Waylon does. Billy lays out every, every, feeling he had, it pouring out of him, an unstoppable flow of emotion. And Waylon wonders, as Billy spills out his every thought like ink on paper, _Is Miles talking to him? Does Billy share his personal thoughts with him? Are they happy inhabiting the same space?_

"Has he tried to talk to you?"

" **He has. We don't get far. What could be a conversation turns into a screaming match** ," Billy looks down at his lap, plays with the bone of Miles' fingers, " **He's right about us being alike. We're hard - headed, impulsive. It's hard to talk to him, because it's hard to talk to me."**

"Can't say I blame you," Waylon says. _I don't think anyone has ever showed him to to resolve problems peacefully. Not that me and Miles are any better teachers_ , "But you know what's wrong. That shows you have a lot of insight, and you know what that means?"

" **What**?"

"Insight leads to change. You know why you can't communicate. You attack the problem at the roots, the weed won't grow back," Waylon reaches out a hand, curls it around one of Billy's.

Like he would with one of his own sons.

Then comes Billy's mom. Billy cries, makes Miles' face turn and twist in unfamiliar ways. His tears are black. The guilt, the betrayal, swirling like a hurricane of negativity, sending goosebumps up Waylon's skin.

 **"I don't feel anything but _lost_ ,"** he says, holding onto Waylon's hand tightly, **"I should hate her."**

"Do you want to, or do you feel like you need to?" Waylon treads carefully. He's never known betrayal of the same caliber at the hands of someone close to him.

" **I _want_ to**," Billy answers, solidly, **"I want to, but I don't feel that way. I'm...."** he takes a deep breath, mouth twisting, " **Disappointed**."

It shatters Waylon's heart in two. He thumbs over the back of Billy's hands.

" **I don't think she ever loved me. Not even a little bit** ," Black tears run down his cheeks, leaving dark stains as he looks down.

Waylon takes on of his hands, rubs away the dark tears, "You know what I think?"

Billy sniffs, " **Yeah**?"

"I think she did, at one point, but I think she's selfish. You were never first in her life. It's a shame. She didn't know how lucky she was."

That cracks whatever Billy was holding back. He sobs, and Waylon shifts closer, easing the young man into his arms in a comforting hug. He didn't look like Miles anymore. He looked like Billy Hope.

Waylon continues, surprising himself as he keeps his voice even, "I think, even though she did her best to crush your spirit, you refused to let go of the little light you had left in your life. You're an amazing, kind young man. You don't need her. You shouldn't even give her the time of _day_ in your mind."

Even though Billy Hope is an adult, he's barely aged past his teenage years. It's in his mannerisms, his speaking patterns, his playfulness when he's in a good mood, all the marks of someone who was given his chance at a time later in life. _Free_. Though not a child, he was someone who was never given the direction, the stability, a parent needed to provide.

Silently, Waylon promises that he'll protect Billy when no one else will.

_That's funny. He's an untouchable killing machine, and I'm a fucked up man with a bum leg. How am I going to protect him?_

They talk. Talk for so long, Waylon sees the sky lighten to a pale blue, pink and yellow on the edges, the darkness metaphorically lifting, as do Billy's spirits. They're sitting side - by - side, shoulders touching. The depressing talks turn to his old life, his interests, when he went to school.

" **I went, everyday** ," Billy says, **"I walked thirty minutes to the bus stop in the blazing heat, everyday. Never missed one day of high school."**

Waylon smiles warmly, relieved to see the tears have long dried in Billy's milky - white eyes, "Did you have friends?"

" **Not**..." Billy shrugs shyly, " **Not really, no. Other kids thought I was weird, and Momma didn't like me bringing anyone home** ," he purses his lips, " **But there was this one boy who..."** Billy plays with his fingers, going quiet.

 _Embarrassed_? "You can tell me," Waylon leans in slightly, "I won't tell anyone."

Billy gives him a sly look, then looks back down at his hands, " **There was this _boy._ His name was Nel Brewer, and he was born a girl but is a man. He had a shaved head, wore one little diamond piercing in his ear, and a gold cross. He always dressed like an actor from _Grease_** ," he grins, " **A bad boy. _Very_ cool."**

"Did you like him?"

Billy nods smiling, **"I did. I think he liked me, too. He used to let me wear this black leather jacket he brought to school, met me by my locker, passed me notes in class. On his eighteenth birthday, I gave him a rabbit skull and a smooth rock that I turned to a necklace, and he gave me my first kiss,"** Billy's hand raises to touch his own lips. He turns his head into his palm.

"Did you two stay in touch outside of high school?"

" **Letters. He went overseas to school in Italy, and I had no phone or computer** ," there's a slight tremble in his layered voice, " **I haven't seen him since he left. We wrote, for a year, until I went to Mount Massive."**

And Waylon's blood runs cold. He rubs a hand on Billy's shoulder.

"I'm so sorry," he says, though sorry will never be enough for Billy. _He's lost his family, the people closest to him, and his life._ Waylon remembers Billy telling him that his and Miles' presence at the asylum freed him, _But what good is freedom if there's nothing left to come back to?_

Billy rubs at his eyes, smearing black ink, **"I know he knows what happened to me. We leaked the entrance to Hell, and the whole world is watching with very attentive eyes. Nel will mourn me, then he'll move on, and I.....I..."**

Coaxing Billy's head into his shoulder, Waylon threads his fingers through his hair as he cries, trying to comfort him, "You want to see him?"

Billy clutches at Waylon's coat, **"No. Look what happened _here_ ,**" he ducks his head into the collar, **"I can't do that to him**."

_That's something we have in common._

Sunlight peaks through the trees, casting a soft and yellow glow in the van. A ray hits him, and Billy pulls back, wiping his face.

" **I'm sorry** ," he says with a sniffle, **"I didn't mean to take up the whole night."**

He almost sounds embarrassed. Waylon eases the young man's hands away from his face, by the wrists, holding them firmly.

"Please don't apologize. I _wanted_ you to come talk to me," Waylon rubs away the black tears on his cheeks, "You can talk to me. _Any_ time you need to. Doesn't matter the day, time, what I'm doing, _nothing_ , you can come talk to me."

Billy stares with milky eyes, lips pressed together. He nods, hugging him.

" **Thank you, Waylon** ," he says, " **For this, for taking me to my mom, even if it didn't end up like I thought it would** ," he pulls back, " **And thank you for my radio."**

Heart swelling, Waylon grins warmly.

Billy looks at the clock, which read 6:38, **"I think Miles has been asleep for too long."**

"I think he can stand to sleep a bit more, if you feel like talking to him."

Billy's blank eyes go wide, " ** _Oh_. You're right**," and he smiles back, **"I think I should do that**."

And for a few moments, Waylon felt the world lift off his shoulders. He can't fix Billy, can't undo what was done. There's no magic button to press that can turn time back.

But there's a little bit of light that shines in Billy's eyes. Just enough to make Waylon feel he really made a difference in someone's life. Even if that person was already dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Billy in Miles' Body = BOLD AND UNDERLINED TEXT
> 
> ok i went CRAZY and typed this out so fast and also just dabbling in a little drama into all this. idk when the next chapter will come out but Eeee
> 
> also a Lot of waylon here. a lot of waylon povs. i dont give him nearly as much love as i think i should in this fic, so times where miles/billy switch out gives me the perfect opportunity to write him more. WAYLON DAD MODE ACTIVATED
> 
> disclaimer: i'm nonbinary. the way i have billy describe Nel being trans is how i believe he would describe it. i would describe a trans man differently, if i were giving someone a definition, but to fit billy's character, i had him describe Nel as such.


	42. Talk To You Soon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS FOR: hallucinations, insects, skin picking, suicide

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you are distressed and/or triggered by depictions of insects, hallucinations, descriptions of sensations under the skin, or suicide, please skip the first part of this chapter.

The Colorado morning is cold, grass and trees covered in dew. Waylon shivers, pulling his coat closer, tying his boots tighter. The sky was blue, hits of yellow at the edges as the sun rose behind the trees. With some effort, his leg pulsing in pain, Waylon finds very few dry leaves and branches.

There was a bag of cheap jerky still left in the van, and Waylon chews thoughtfully on a piece as he pokes at the morning fire. After their talk, he left Billy to his own devices, and so Miles' body laid unconscious _(Unmanned_ , Waylon thinks,) in the back of the van. It's been two - and - a - half hours since then.

 _Good_ , Waylon thinks, _They're talking it out in their dreams....as weird as it sounds. It's good for them. They need to help each other if we're ever going to survive all this._

He wishes he had bought real food, or at least water bottles with small insta - coffee packets. Everyone loves a cup of coffee fresh in the morning.

He quickly shakes the thought from his head. This isn't a camping trip. We stopped for the night so no one would see us covered in blood and recognize us. His mind travels further as he stares into the small flames. Seeing his family was out of the question, their last real task being helping Billy see his mom. He didn't know what their next move was, where they were going to go next.

_Blackjaw is swarming the area. We're being pinched in. We need to get out of state, fast, but our options are limited. Who knows, they might have checkpoints at every road out of state._

It feels like they're stuck.

Waylon turns his head, looking at the lake. It's clear, reflecting the sky above, rippling gently. There's no animals, no breeze, no sounds but the crackling of the fire.

 _We could stay here_ , Waylon thinks, foolishly, _for the winter. Sleep in the van, bathe in the lake. We could stock up on dry food at the nearest grocery store, get some fishing equipment, fish here, collect rainwater._

Waylon's body feels heavy, skin like leather, bones like led. He's tired, exhausted. Running, fighting, the constant roller coaster of pain and trauma, it was a thousand pound boulder on his back, and there was nothing he could do to shrug it off. Even with Miles' companionship, and Billy's protection, Waylon has never felt more and truly alone. They would never be truly safe and free from the violence that constantly plagued them.

 _Are we going to be running for the rest of our lives?_ Waylon shakes at the thought. _We'll never be safe. The people we know will never be left alone, they'll always have the big red sign that says KNOWS THE WHISTLEBLOWERS WHO FUCKED OVER MURKOFF over their heads and on their backs. My sons? Are they being protected from the truth?_ He knows they're asking for him, at _home_ , with his _wife_.

Desperately, Waylon wants to see them. It barely feels like the deep - rooted, human need to see and care for his family. It feels more like an obligation to let them know he's still alive. It's cruel, to only throw them a note with the barest of details, but it's all Waylon can think of sending them. _Worthless, worthless, worthless._

For the first time today, Waylon thinks of killing himself. The thought crosses his mind, often, every day, every hour, at different strengths. He tucked the gun away in his duffle. It would be so easy. So quick. _Would I feel anything when I pull the trigger? What if I miss?_ And he swears at himself. _How could I fucking miss an easy shot?_

Large, black centipedes crawl from the fire, smoldering creatures with mouths that snap at his boots. Waylon frowns, kicks at one of the insects, but his boot passes straight through it.

"Fucking _bugs_ ," Waylon stands, giving a last futile kick to one, and stomps back to the van.

He can hear them crawling behind, snapping, hungry for flesh and hurt and pain. He feels things tap over his skin, whispers of feelings, and he swats at his arms and legs, trying to crush them as they try to burrow their way into his body. He strips off his coat in a panic, throwing it to the dirt, his shirt following. There's nothing on his skin except his scars, but he knows they're there. He scratches at a patch of skin on his ribs, harshly, the skin turning red from irritation. _Peel the skin, get them out, I want them out, get them out, get them off I don't want them get them out -_

The back doors of the van swing open.

Miles is awake, and Waylon knows it's Miles, because his eyes are brown. And they're staring. And they're a little red and puffy. And they bore straight through Waylon's body. And his expression is unreadable, or Waylon lost the ability to read into him.

He doesn't speak as he steps out of the van.

Crawling pain travels up Waylon's spine, burrowing into the back of his head, and he swats at it. He can feel the insect crush under his skin, exoskeleton and bits digging into the meat of his brain. He grits his teeth.

Miles eases down, grabbing Waylon's coat and shirt. He tucks the shirt under his arm, throwing the coat back over Waylon's shoulders.

Waylon can hear chittering in his brain, clicking, rewiring him from the inside. _Get them out, get them out, get them out, get them out_. He digs his nails into the skin of the back of his head, trying to scrape away the flesh. Miles eases him forward, into the van.

Waylon is sure he's speaking. His lips move, corpse - like eyes staring up, but the chatter of centipedes in his head drown out Miles' sound. Waylon shakes his head. _I can't hear you, speak up, I can't hear you, speak up._

Miles helps him into the van, and Waylon wants to tear his bad leg off, open up the skin and let the bugs pour out, empty out, skitter and crawl away, away from him, them, _everything, everything, everything, everything, everything, everything, everything, everything, everything, everything -_

He's pushed down, onto the floor of the van, and it call goes black.

 

 

  
-

 

 

  
Miles has never felt sorrier in his whole life. Billy welcomed him with opened arms, with forgiveness, with understanding. He said he had talked to Waylon, and like he did with Waylon, he spilled out everything he was holding onto, buckets of feelings overflowing so much Miles thought he would drown in it.

And in turn, Miles opened up to him.

It felt so _good_. All of the weight, the guilt, the ugliness Miles was holding onto, dumped out onto the floor and rifled through by a pair of caring hands that wanted to know every bit of it's contents. He holds Billy, cries with him, rages with him. It didn't feel like a father - son relationship, no mentor and apprentice, or even best friends. Miles, for the first time in his life, felt he had a brother. A little brother, who's flawed like him, and loves like him, brothers who open up to each other when they have nobody else to.

And he wakes up with a grin, in a good mood as he pulls his clothes on, feeling like he closed one hefty chapter of his life, and inviting people to open another with him.

Until he opens the back of the van.

Until he sees Waylon.

He helps him into the van, and as soon as Waylon's head hits the duffle, he falls limp, like he's been holding himself upright his entire life. Miles closes the back doors. He collects the garbage they left at the campfire, brings everything they left behind back to the van. Waylon sleeps like he's dead in the back, covered by a blanket. Billy sits next to him. He keeps one graying hand on his forehead.

"Lots of brain activity," he says.

Miles doesn't answer.

Because, truly, Miles _doesn't_ know how to answer. Dealing with someone who was too high to talk, or who was too drunk to walk, was a cakewalk compared to a psychotic episode. It's different when he's in a hospital, interviewing people, and he can call a nurse in to help a patient who's having one, or studying the effects of a generic brand antipsychotic medication and researching how an episode felt for an article.

This is much different.

And Miles feels powerless.

_Funny, right? I'm the most powerful man on the planet right now. But I don't fucking know what to do. I can't fucking help him._

"Can you stop them?" Miles asks, looking down on Waylon's still form. He can see Waylon's eyes move behind his eyelids in rapid motions, signs of active dreaming.

Billy shakes his head, face grim, "I can't."

Miles bites back harsh words, _You can heal a broken bone or a concussion but you can't stop his hallucinations?_ Miles can't shake the visage of Waylon, shirtless, scratching at himself, muttering about skin and bugs, wanting them out. He looked so colorless, so _scared_.

Billy sighs, shaky, "Let him sleep for a while. He was up all night. He just needs some rest. This will pass. He'll be OK."

Miles wants to laugh. _He'll be OK. Like any of this is OK._ Frustration and anger bubble up in his gut. He slams the back doors of the van. He runs his hands through his hair, rubbing over his face, his beard, trying to control his breathing.

He walks to the edge of the lake, a cold breeze running through him. He kneels down on the sandy shore, splashing cold water on his face. He crawls a little deeper into the lake, until his lower legs are soaked. He plants his hands on the wet ground, takes a deep, deep breath and dunks his head into the cold, cold water.

And he screams.

The sound is swallowed by the lake, but he can feel the water react, bubbles popping from his mouth, darting for the surface. He raises himself, sucking in the cold morning air.

He dunks himself again.

Over and over, he breathes the air, and dips under the water, and yells until he feels his ears ring, and breaks the surface. Air, water, scream, surface. A pattern that, though laborious, soothes Miles. Water seeps through his clothes as he breaks one last time, soaked to the bone, the heaviness of his wet clothing a comfort.

"Upshur?" Billy asks from behind.

Miles rubs water away from his eyes, standing, "What?" He looks at Billy, who stands still at the start of the lake.

He plays with his hands, "Do you blame yourself for what's happening to him, Upshur?"

"No," Miles fires back, because he truly doesn't believe Waylon's condition is his doing. He holds his next thought in his throat, not letting it escape him.

Billy steps onto the water, like the water were a solid surface. He tilts his head slightly, waiting for more.

 _That's it, isn't it? What we promised each other in the headspace? To share everything, to not let things fester inside_. Miles wipes water from his face.

"I feel like I'm failing him," Miles says. It doesn't hurt to say, like he thought it would. He opens up that part of him, let's Billy see, "I failed everyone else in my life. This isn't my fault, I know, you don't have to tell me, but I can't stop thinking about how...." He breathes deep, "How helpless I am to stop it all."

Billy nods slowly.

"I can't give him a hug and a kiss and a couple'a words and it'll all go away like I want it to. I want to help him. I don't know how," Miles wipes his eyes, and he can't decide if the water that runs down his cheeks is his or from the lake.

Billy plays with his fingers, looking down at his non - existent reflection in the lake, "You're already helping him."

Miles starts to scowl, _How?_ He wants to ask. He quickly reels in his bitterness, slightly wading closer to Billy, "How?" He asks, softly.

Billy crosses the water, careful and unhurried, making no disturbance, "Look at what you've done for him so far. You've shown him patience, understanding. You've kept him safe, made sure he's stayed alive."

"But is that enough?" _Am I enough?_

"Enough?" Billy grins, like he can't believe the words coming out of Miles' mouth, "You doubt yourself that much? You can't stop something on a neurological level yourself. You can't blame yourself for that. A journalist is no replacement for a doctor."

And there it is. Everything Miles was afraid of wrapped up in a few neat sentences.

"He needs help," Billy continues, "Professional help."

"We can't go to anyone," and that helplessness quickly turns to anger. _He's suffering, and nobody on the planet will want to be within twenty miles of him_. Besides that, Miles finds that his trust for medical and psychological professionals has been dwindled down into near nothingness.

"No, we can't," Billy agrees, "But we can give him company, and support, just for now, just until we can get him the help he needs."

"And how long is he going to have to wait for it?" Miles has never seen Waylon's episodes get so bad. He doesn't know if Waylon can wait.

Billy looks to the sky, looks back to Miles, "Until we have no choice but to bring him somewhere."

Where, a hospital? Miles scoffs. Hospitals, doctors.

Trauma, tragedy.

Violence. Evil.

Death.

It's both irrational, and rational thinking. Miles knows his experiences at the asylum _(And I can barely call that house of horrors anything but that - a house of horrors,)_ are not the same as experiences at others, but that doesn't discredit his feelings.

"So. that's the plan when things go South? We leave him at some random hospital and hope we make enough noise to throw Murkoff off his scent?" He motions to the van.

"I'm just pointing out the obvious. He can't survive like we can," Billy says, the sorrow in his voice heavy.

And it hurts. It hurts a lot, jabs Miles in his chest like a rust shiv. His hands shake, fingertips buzzing.

Rubbing his hands over his face, Miles shakes his head, "Can we wait to talk about this? At least until we're out of Colorado?" He wants Billy to drop the subject like a hot coal.

And Billy does. He nods, "Outside of Colorado. You've got it, Upshur," a tremor passes through his form, breaking him into dust. The stream passes into Miles' body, his chest blooming with warmth for a second, before nothing.

 

 

  
-

 

 

  
The fire crackled sadly as Miles piled more dried leaves and sticks into it. His clothes were laid out neatly next to it, to dry after his screaming match with the fish in the lake. He's in a new outfit, one he carefully picked out as not to disturb Waylon's sleep. He's been waiting for a few hours, judging by the sun high in the sky, for his clothes to dry, and they were still slightly wet, and Miles can physically feel his patience wear sheer and thin. His leg bounces, impatient.

As he sits, he thinks about their next moves. _North, East, West, South, no idea where to head to next._ Miles didn't have any trustworthy contacts out East, and he wasn't familiar with that side of the country. He doubted Waylon was, either. _Where do we go? What's next for us?_

"Miles," Billy says. There's something off about his tone. It's grave, and dark, and _scared_.

Miles' first thought is of Waylon. He bounces up, turns around, ready to fight or run or face whatever Billy was warning him about.

There's nothing but the forest, and the van, and Billy standing by the back doors of the van. And in his hand, he holds his new radio. It's turned up loud, the broadcast filling the empty forest silence, drowning out the soft beating of the lake water on the shore.

And Miles' eyes go wide. And his blood turns to ice in his veins. And his hands shake, and he tries to hold onto himself.

 

 

  
-

 

 

  
As the van jerks to the side, Waylon slides across the open back area, and the movements shake him awake.

Blearily, but with quickness, he sits up, registering his surroundings.

 _Still in the van but....but we're moving. Where are we going?_ Waylon looks down at himself. He's still shirtless, a small spot under his ribs covered in scratches. Shame washed over him. He can remember every bit of his episode with perfect clarity. Miles saw, he _watched_. Worry about... _everything_ passes through him, especially the worry of Miles seeing him in that state, and thinking less of him for it.

His dreams were empty, full of nothing, and Waylon feels more exhausted than he thought he'd be. He twists around, looking into the front seat.

Miles is deathly still in the drivers seat. His hands are clamped onto the steering wheel, plastic cracked. Waylon quickly pulls on a shirt, glancing at the clock, which was just after ten.

"What's going on?"

Without an answer, Miles glances from his peripherals. Waylon bristles.  _What happened? Did Blackjaw raid the campsite while I was passed out?_

Miles doesn't speak, but Billy does, through the radio, "Listen," he says, shaky.

The volume of the van radio swells, filling the entire vehicle.

" _Today_ ," Suzie Sunshine says, voice grave, " _Murkoff's reign of terror on this wonderful country is in full fledge. And today, they finally reveal themselves as the monsters they are, without the smoke and mirrors. This is the audio for a video that they recently uploaded to their official website. You're free to listen to this broadcast, dear listeners, but I have to warn you, what you are about to hear is very disturbing."_

Suzie's voice cuts out, and another voice comes through. A familiar, airy and friendly male voice.

" _Good morning, citizens of America_ ," Jude Rawlings, the Public Relations head of the Murkoff Corporation greets. His voice sends a chill down Waylon's spine, " _Though, this isn't a message for you. This is a message for the Walrider. For Miles Upshur."_

Waylon's stomach does a flip.

" _You've eluded us for two weeks now,"_ the man says, and Waylon can physically feel his smile, _"But we're finished playing nice. This is a cutthroat world of business, after all. No need to dance around the issues at hand. Let's get down to the grit of things, shall we?"_

 _Nice?_ Waylon scoffs quietly, but listens. There's the sound of shuffling, and a grunt.

" _Fortunately for us, Upshur, you have very few family and friends. It makes them very easy to track down, especially one with a background as colorful as your father's_ ," There's a swish of fabric.

 _Father_. Waylon's eyes dart to Miles. He's still, like a statue, tension controlling his body.

 _"We want one thing, and one thing only. The Walrider. See, and I don't know how you did this, but you did, you blew up the facility we were storing that wonderful thing in. All that research, poof, gone. You have the last remnants of Project Walrider, Upshur. And that's Murkoff property. You stole from us_ ," he chuckles, then his voice goes dark, " _Here's the deal. You give us the Walrider, we give you your daddy back and you both escape with your lives. Now, how's that sound?"_

There's a few hollow steps, his voice closer to whatever microphone he was speaking into, " _We're giving you one day to contact us. One day. Twenty four hours. One second late, and I might have to do something drastic to dear old dad here_ ," there's a soft groan, " _He's not looking too well, Upshur. Well, what can you do about a fifty - year - old addict, anyway? Maybe it wouldn't hurt to speed the process up, huh? Looks like he's about on Death's door,"_ Rawlings sucks breath through his teeth, " _Oh, but that would be in bad faith, wouldn't it?"_

Waylon can physically feel the weight of the world drop onto Miles' shoulders.

" _Twenty four hours. Call me at this number,"_ And Rawlings lists off a number. It burns into Waylon's memory. There's a soft chuckle, and more hollow steps, " _Why don't you say goodbye, Mr. Ville? Say goodbye to your son."_

There's silence.

Rawlings tuts, " _Talk to you soon, Miles_."

The recording stops, replaced by Suzie. The radio turns off.

"Jesus Christ," Waylon stands, but the movement of the van, combined with his pulsing leg, sends him toppling back down, "Jesus - _fucking_ \- Christ," _Have they gotten so desperate they're just executing who - fucking - ever they need to?_

"Sit _down_ , Park," Miles yells.

"What are you - what are we going to do?" Waylon stumbles to the front, gripping the back of the driver's seat. Miles shakes his head.

"I don't know. I haven't seen my dad since my mom's funeral," Miles talks quickly and loudly, one hand waving, "Haven't spoken a fuckin' word to him since. Almost ten years! He's a fucking bastard," His voice raises, causing Waylon's ears to ring, "I fucking hate him for everything he's fucking done, Park, but I - " He grits his teeth, " _Fuck_ \- "

Quickly, Miles pulls over onto the side of the road. He twists around to face Waylon, his seatbelt ripping off of his chest.

And Waylon isn't sure he's ever seen Miles so angry in his entire life. His dead eyes have finally flickered with a little light, and that light was made of fire and wrath Waylon is sure he cannot even fathom to feel.

More frightening than the rageful light, Waylon can see tears fill his eyes.

"But I can't fucking let them kill him. There's no easy death with those motherfuckers. They'll torture him and broadcast it to the whole fucking world," His voice cracks, "I couldn't give less of a fuck about my pops, but he doesn't deserve that. Not at the hands of _those_ fucking animals."

"So what's the plan? Show up and hand Billy over?"

"Of fucking course not."

"It's too easy," Billy says, "We call, we set up a meeting place, we make the trade, they leave you alone. It's not their style," he adds the last part with grimness and dread.

Miles nods, "No fucking _shit_ it's a trap, Billy."

"I've kept you alive so far, Upshur, but I don't know how much I can take. I don't know my limits."

"Don't worry about the limits," Miles says, "We'll - "

"Show up and kill everyone as soon as you can?" Waylon snaps, "That's suicide!"

"What the fuck else are we gonna do?" Miles yells, "I'd love to hear any other fucking option you have, Park."

Waylon snaps shut. Nothing else came to mind.

With an angry, frustrated growl, Miles twists back around in his seat. He starts the van back up.

"Open the map, Park. I need a rest stop."

 

 

 

  
-

 

 

  
The cracked casing of the steering wheel digs into Miles' palm, the only thing grounding him. He wanted to rip the whole world apart. He wanted to pound his fists into the ground until it cracked and fell away, swallowing up him and the rest of the surface. He wanted to tear himself apart, rip his arms off his body, tear himself open so the blood and organs inside smothered the earth.

Billy sits in the empty center. He keeps a hand on Miles' knee, the cold touch attempting to soothe. It doesn't.

The rest stop was twenty minutes away. The twenty minutes seemed to stretch into eternity. There was a timer that loomed above Miles' head, ticking down on his dad's life.

He couldn't put the pure, white - hot rage that coursed through his body into words. It was a feeling, like hot lava, like the end of a shiv, ripping into his flesh. It numbed what was left of his fingers.

He whips into the rest stop, fishing through his pockets for change. His hand shakes as he drops the coins in, almost dropping them a few times. He pokes in each number, almost denting a few of the buttons. He sucks in air through his teeth, trying to stop shaking,

The phone doesn't get through the first ring before it's picked up.

" _Jude Rawlings_ ," a voice snaps on the other end.

"Where's my dad?"

A pause. Miles can feel the grin through the receiver.

" _Mr. Upshur. Nice to hear fro -_ "

"Save the fucking shit. Where's my dad?"

Rawlings tuts on the other end, " _That's not very nice -_ "

"You aren't interested in playing nice. Listen, can we cut the villain filibustering? You want the Walrider, I want my dad, end of story," his hand grips the side of the payphone, metal peeling back.

" _Right to business. I like that in a man, Upshur_ ," Rawlings sighs, as if leaning back in a chair, " _Don't think of this as anything that it isn't, Upshur. This is a business transaction, nothing more and nothing less."_

"People's lives aren't business, Mr. Rawlings," Miles says, fighting to grit his teeth, "But if you thought like that, you wouldn't work with Murkoff."

" _Now look who's filibustering_."

"Shut up."

Rawlings laughs, " _So, we may have your dad, but you have our Walrider. Would you like to set the meeting place, or shall I?"_

"You guys kidnap him in LA?"

_"We did. But, ugh, kidnap is such an ugly term, I pre - "_

"Fuck what you think about it, asshole," he takes a deep breath, "Meet me at the Yellow Ray Mall, tomorrow at five PM. It's in LA, if that ass - kissing brain of yours didn't realize. If you're late, I'll destroy the Walrider. If my dad is dead, I'll destroy the Walrider. Do you understand me?"

" _Crystal clear, Mr. Upshur. Mr. Ville will be delivered to you in perfect condition."_

"Good. Yellow Ray Mall. Tomorrow. Five PM. Don't forget," He pauses, "Talk to you soon, Jude."

Miles slams the receiver down.

The world spins, and he slumps to his knees, stomach turning. He vomits, spits up sour bile. He could feel cold hands on his shoulders.

"One step at a time, Upshur," Billy muses, "We'll rescue him, don't worry."

And Miles wishes he could believe him.

 

 

-

 

 

  
Waylon waits patiently in the back of the van. Miles isn't gone long, five minutes. He almost rips the door off as he hops back into the driver's seat.

"They're in LA," he says, "We're meeting them tomorrow at five, at a mall."

Waylon nods, "We're going straight there, right?"

"Yeah. It'll take a day."

"I'll drive through the night, let you sleep."

Miles eyes him. He rubs at his face, "I don't know if that's a good idea, Park."

"What do you mean?"

"My dad is just that, Park. _My_ dad. What's happening to him is my responsibility."

Waylon hops into the front seat as Miles starts the van, "You're _crazy!_ I'm not letting you rescue your dad by yourself!"

"He's not by himself," Billy quips.

"You know what I mean," he huffs, "The point is, I'm not gonna let you go alone. Who's gonna watch your back? I'm the eyes, remember? We're partners."

"Yeah? What are you gonna do when we show up and the bullets start flying?" Miles bites.

"Where am I gonna go then? You gonna drop me off outside the meeting place and hope Blackjaw doesn't notice me?"

Miles pauses. He heaves an angry sigh through his nose, "I can't ask you to do this Park."

"That's OK, because I was already ready to do it."

"You're being an idiot. You'll get hurt, and then what'll we do?"

Waylon scowls, "I'm not an idiot. I know what I'm doing," he can't stop the words from flowing out, "It may not be obvious to you, Miles, but I survived Mount Massive on my own. Without Billy, and without you. I want help your dad," _I want to help you._

There's no sound but the van passing on the highway. Waylon sweats in the silence. _Maybe I should've just agreed with him._

But then Miles sighs through his nose, shaking his head.

"You're a stubborn idiot, Park," he says, "But I need you to promise me something."

"Anything."

"The first sign of trouble, I want you to run. You see anything that tells you it'll go South, I want you out of there. Can you promise me that?"

Waylon nods, "Promise. First sign of trouble, I'm out the door."

Miles glances at the other man through his peripherals. His mouth opens, ready to say something, but it snaps shut again.

"Thanks, Park."

Waylon leans back into his seat, "Now, how are we gonna fake a trade?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh im so excited :) im rlly happy w the direction this fic is going :)
> 
> thnx for reading Ah :D


	43. Exchange

Cold on his cheeks nudges Waylon awake. He's slept the sunlight away, his coat curled up over him. The moon is a small sliver in the dark sky, brush strokes of stars surrounding it.

"Your turn, Waylon," Billy says.

Waylon yawns, looking at the clock. It's just past ten PM.

"Christ, I was out the whole day?" Waylon says.

"Yeah. You slept through a thunderstorm, like you were dead in the seat," Miles pulls over.

"Don't joke about that," Waylon says. They switch seats, Waylon settling into the drivers side. He leans the seat back a bit, looking over at Miles.

Miles settles himself comfortably in the passenger side. He doesn't speak as he pulls Waylon's canvas coat over him like a blanket. Waylon won't deny that he liked seeing Miles in his coat, curled up and cozy. _Cute_.

He starts driving, pulling back onto the road.

"I can read the map," Billy says, "Don't worry about directions."

"Thanks, Billy," Waylon says.

They don't make it two miles down the road before Waylon looks over, and sees Miles passed out in his seat.

"Merry Hell, he needed that," Waylon mutters to himself.

"He does," Billy agrees, "He'll be out for a while."

"How is he?"

"Stressed."

"That's obvious, yeah."

The pocket radio slips across the dashboard, the van radio switching off "I'd like to talk to you," Billy says.

"Sure buddy, what's up?"

"Do you like Miles?"

Waylon picks at the cracked plastic of the steering wheel, "Of course I do."

"OK. Because he likes you."

Waylon grins, "I sure hope he does. It would be a little awkward if we were working together and he didn't like me, wouldn't it?"

"I guess it would," Billy hums, "But I think I'm not asking the right questions."

Waylon's brows furrow, "What do you mean?"

"So. Imagine this," Billy starts, "Somehow, Murkoff just," he makes a silly explosion noise, "Falls off the face of the earth. You're both free. No one will bother you ever again. Life will continue on. What would you do?"

"Go back to my family," Waylon says automatically. Billy bounced around from a wisdom beyond his years to a child - like outlook on things. It reminded Waylon of Ricky, at times. An old, delicate soul wrapped up in the body of a boy.

"Where do you think Miles would go?"

He thinks for a second, "Back to Nevada. He'd go back to his life as a journalist, write a book about all this shit, and make a huge amount of money off of it. At least, I think that's what he'd do."

"Would you keep in contact?"

"Of course. We're....." Waylon tries to grab an appropriate term from his head.

"Partners?" Billy offers,

"Yeah, partners," But partners felt like it both muted what they had, and made it seem all the more intimate at the same time.

And it dawns on Waylon what _exactly_ Billy is asking him.

He eyes the radio on the dashboard, "It's complicated," he says, _Because it's always Goddamn complicated_.

"It doesn't seem really complicated," Billy says, "You like him, he likes you."

"It's different."

"How?"

"It just is."

There's only silence for a few moments. Waylon sighs.

"Look, I like Miles. I do, I like him," _A lot. More than I should, more than that's safe,_ "I just don't think I'm right for him," _He needs someone who isn't burdened by every fucking thing in the world. Someone better._

"Really? I'm surprised. The way you act around each other, it's like you've been together for years."

Waylon flushes, " _Oh_ , don't - "

"Do you think I'm making fun of you? I'm not. I'm completely serious," the radio dials spin, "You two fit together. I can''t imagine you separated."

"Have you asked Miles about any of this?"

"Yes, and he's as hopeless a romantic as any. He doesn't want to leave you."

It scared Waylon to fucking _death_ , thinking of a future without Miles in it. Call him dependent, but he couldn't _imagine_ waking up everyday and not seeing Miles, or hearing his voice. Waylon wanted to hold onto him, as tight as Miles would allow, and never let go.

By the way Billy spoke, it seemed like Miles wasn't too opposed to the idea, either.

Waylon's hands tremble as they grip the steering wheel. He grins, tightly and fakely, "Maybe let's talk about this when Miles isn't in the car, OK?"

"OK, Waylon."

Waylon mutters a thanks, "I might fall asleep at the wheel here, buddy," He pauses, "Tell me about California."

He isn't prepared for the somber image of poverty in the desert that Billy spins. The town he grew up in was rife with addiction, businesses run down into the dirt, buildings crumbling, windows rusted. Most of the commerce procured was from a rest stop just outside town. The men had passed the stop, which was a gas station with a little diner next to it. The only real sign of life in an otherwise dead town.

The landscape seemed just as destitute as the people, empty and overrun with brush and wildlife.

"There were long, hot days. I'd tie my long hair back and grab a long branch of wood, petrified and bleached from the sun," He'd poke around the surrounding desert and brush, around the trees. Everyday, there was something new in the dirt and leaves for him to bring home. Or, at least leave to collect behind their trailer.

"When Momma went shopping, I'd use the empty jam jars left over and collect....." Billy's voice trails off.

"Collect what?" Waylon asks.

"Collect bugs!" Billy's voice raises in excitement.

"What? What's going on?" Waylon peels his eyes away from the road, looking at the radio.

He can almost feel Billy's smile. There's a click, and the indoor lights of the car turn on, "Can you see this?"

In front of his eyes, Waylon see's a little black cloud appear. It's small, black flecks against the inner lights. A sharp ringing filled his head.

"Yeah, yeah I can," he blinks harshly. Are those the nanos?

"I have to talk to Miles!" Billy says, "I'll be right back!"

 

 

  
-

 

 

Waylon juggles reading the map and driving until the sun comes up, Billy having never returned from his time in Miles' headspace. It's around 8 AM when he finally jostles Miles awake. Miles yawns, sits up in his seat, pulls Waylon's coat down.

"Fuck, what time is it?"

"Morning. Do you wanna stop somewhere for a pee break?" Waylon peers from the corners of his eyes at the man.

"Sounds great. Could use a coffee, too. And a smoke."

"No smoking. It's bad for you," Waylon would tell that to Lisa every time he saw her with a cigarette in her hand.

"Maybe for _you_. For me, it's just another hobby," Miles stretches rolls out his shoulders. He looks at the coat in his hand, "Remind me to get one of these for myself, Park."

"What, so you can ruin it again the next time Billy takes over?"

Miles snorts, "Maybe you're right," he rubs the sleep at his eyes, "It would be easier to just walk around naked the whole time."

Waylon smirks, and shrugs, "I wouldn't be opposed to it."

Miles glances at him, a soft smirk on his face. It quickly falls, "First rest stop you see, Park."

They pull over a few miles down, into a small rest - stop with a little gift shop attached. Miles pulls Waylon's coat on with his gloves. It may be California, but the morning is cold enough to warrant it. It hangs long on his frame, bunches slightly at the armpits. Waylon pulls on another one of his shirts, a brown over - coat with a zipper at the collar, and pulls on his denim hat.

They take their bathroom breaks, grabbing coffee, and Miles grabs a large, empty jar from one of the shelves. Waylon sends Miles a glare as he tries to ask the cashier for a pack of cigarettes.

"Never mind," Miles says with a sigh, earning him a shrug from the cashier.

"So what time are we meeting them? You said five?" Waylon shifts into the passenger seat.

"Yeah. And I've got a plan to get my dad back, and keep Billy out of Murkoff's hands."

"Does it have to do with a jar?" Waylon holds up the empty mason jar.

Miles turns his head, turning the van on, "Yeah. How'd you know?" He slightly grins.

"Billy mentioned it last night. He can physically show off his nanos, you know that?"

"He showed me, yeah. Didn't think it was possible."

Billy flips the radio on, "It doesn't take much energy, but focusing them can cause the nanos to become...distressed."

"That's the high - pitched ringing, right?" Waylon asks.

"Yes. They vibrate on a level invisible to the naked eye. They aren't used to having to stand still."

"Can they break?"

"As far as I'm aware, no."

"Good," Miles says, "Can't deliver a damaged Walrider, can we?" He places his hand over Waylon's, on top of the jar, "You've been driving all night, Park. Get some sleep."

 

 

  
-

 

 

  
With his partner comatose in his seat, Miles stares ahead, mind racing. He can only imagine the torture his dad must be going through. _What if he's dead when we get there?_

Even after the innumerable amount of beatings, drug runs, and years of no communication, Miles still cares about his father's wellbeing. _He doesn't deserve to get beaten to death, or have his skin carved off of him, or whatever else Murkoff could be doing to him right now. Call me crazy._

 _It's natural_ , Miles justifies, _even after all the horrible shit he's put me through, we're still blood_. He feels like an idiot for feeling any sort of empathy for his dad, but it's understandable. Miles has dealt with plenty of people in interviews in the same predicament. _If nothing else, he at least deserves a death from natural causes, and not murder._

He thinks of rolling the windows down, but with Waylon sleeping, he decides against it. He turns the air on, blasting it on full, soothing his skin, which felt like it was on fire. He's still wearing Waylon's coat. He pops the collar, Waylon's natural scent filling his senses.

He looks over for a second. Waylon is faced away, towards the window, the bright Cali sunlight filtering over his body. _He still looks so thin._ Miles fights the urge to feel around the man's ribs. _He could use a real meal every once in a while._ He snaps his head back to the road.

_Don't get distracted, Upshur. Pops first, then you can worry about your boyfr -_

He stops.

 

 

  
-

 

 

  
The closer they get to LA, the more the knot in Miles' gut twists itself, his finger bashing the lock button. They're less than an hour away from the Yellow Ray Mall, and Miles fights the urge to pull over for a breather on the side of the road. He can feel Billy over his shoulder, staring out the windshield, reflecting his own mood by letting black smoke waft through the van.

"Can you cut that out?" Miles snaps, "I'm driving here."

"Sorry Upshur," Billy says quietly, receding into the back of Miles' brain.

Miles sighs, "I'm sorry - "

"I know. I know."

 

 

  
-

 

 

  
The van jerks, bumping Waylon into consciousness. He sits up, rubbing his eyes, squinting at the sunlight.

"We're here," Miles rumbles. The clock reads 3 PM.

Outside, the Yellow Ray Mall is a big, ugly bulk of white with an expansive concrete parking lot. Miles had taken a spot near the front, two spaces from the mall entrance. A lucky spot, since the entire lot is packed.

"Looks packed," Waylon says.

"Exactly. You stay here," Miles says, "If we're not out by at least 5:10, start worrying."

Waylon snaps his head towards Miles, " _What_? No, I'm going in there with you - "

Miles puts a hand up, "You aren't going to convince me, Way," He holds up his right hand, index finger missing, "One, if they just decide to shoot the place up, I don't know if I'll be able to cover you and my dad at the same time," he ticks off his middle finger, "Two, we need a getaway driver."

Waylon's eyebrows shoot up, " _Oh_. Merry Hell, I didn't even think of that."

Miles' lips quirk, "What, expect us to just kill everyone and just walk to the van in the aftermath?"

He flushes, "Well, no - "

"It was a joke, Park," Miles says, not a smile in sight, "Just stay here, alright? Doors locked, head down."

"What if they pull up?"

"I'll be here," Billy chirps, "First sign of them, I'm off into the mall to warn Upshur.

"Sounds like a solid plan," Waylon says, despite his inner voice screaming at him to go inside with them. _Don't leave Miles alone._

 _But he's not alone_ , Waylon argues back, _he has Billy._

Miles grabs the empty mason jar, and his black hat. Waylon can't stop himself from grabbing onto his arm before he can open the door.

"Hey," He says.

Miles stops, looks over. His dead eyes burn.

_He's as hopeless a romantic as any. He doesn't want to leave you._

"Be careful," Waylon says, keeping the things that swirl inside like a wild hurricane from escaping him.

Miles gives him an almost - grin, leaning over the seat and giving him a kiss on the cheek.

"Don't worry about me, Park. I'll be back."

 

 

-

 

 

  
Waylon has the windows down, hat tilted low as he watches the cars pass and go in sweltering silence. The radio hums music and local news, Billy turning the dials as he likes. They've barely spoken, eyes focused on the surrounding area. It's 4:45, and there's no sign of Blackjaw. Nothing on Miles' dad. Hell, Waylon doesn't even know what Jude Rawlings _looks_ like, so he latches onto every man that walks into the mall in a suit.

Which is quite a number, as Waylon has counted thirty - two so far in the past two hours.

As Waylon taps to the beat of a rock song he can't remember the name of, a black van whirs past him. His body locks up, eyes the only element moving.

"Billy - " He starts

Billy stops playing with the dials, "On it," he says, then silence.

A second van pulls up behind that one, then a third, then a fourth. Soon, eight separate black vans with the Blackjaw company symbol pull up. People exiting the mall scurry away quickly, yelling. The people exiting their cars quickly turn back into them, taking photos or pulling away.

Armed guards hop out of their respective vans, a swarm of them, like the swarm of the Walrider. Waylon tries to count them out, but they shift and sway in uniform synchronicity, so he loses track at thirty one. Out of one of the vans, a gentleman walks out, dressed in a crisp blue suit with a silver tie. He's white, older, forty teetering on fifty, with blond hair that's graying at the roots, slicked back. Waylon doesn't have to ask to know that has to be Jude Rawlings.

Rawlings makes a gesture, barks an order with a wave of his hand, and one guard nods his helmeted head. He pulls open the back doors of one of the vans. He disappears into the vehicle, then pops out with a figure trudging behind him.

The figure was a man, in his sixties, with black hair that's graying at the sides, and olive skin.

_Miles' dad._

The guard drags Miles' father up the sidewalk. Rawlings bends low, whispers something into the man's ear, and the three walk into the building, the guards following behind.

Waylon's hands tighten on the steering wheel. _Stay here, stay here, stay here,_ so nervous his ears start to ring. His eyes follow a shadow that paces out of the van.

While still dressed in the standard Blackjaw armor, the figure had pale, translucent skin. His white hair was pulled back out of his face, shining in the sun. His pale purple gaze glances at Waylon, and between his eyes, a long scar dragged down the center of his face.

Waylon rolls his eyes, grimacing. _Oh, what the fuck. I don't need any of this hallucination shit right now. C'mon, not now_. He remembers seeing Miles move Quill Matheson's body back at his house. _Dead man walking,_ Waylon laments.

Matheson strides towards the van.

Waylon sits back, crosses his arms, and waits for the hallucination to disappear.

 

 

  
-

 

 

  
Miles thinks he might go crazy waiting for Blackjaw to show up, until Billy pops to his side and warns him. Miles opens the jar, Billy materializing the nanotech, before he sifts the rest of himself into Miles.

"Stay quiet, don't make a sound," Miles spins the jar closed, watching the black cloud softly vibrate against the sides of the jar. There's no response from Billy, but Miles can feel his acknowledgment.

He swallows as he sees people scramble each and every way, as far from the entering Blackjaw agents as they could get. The sea of black - clad men with guns paid none of them any attention. The group was led by Jude Rawlings, and by Rawlings' side, a guard dragging along the frail form of Miles' father. Miles' heart does a flip in his chest.

Eric Ville was a short, broad man, Miles having been the spitting image of him. He grew his beard out, so Miles looks much more like him than usual. The man barely looked 62, he looked more like he was teetering on 80. _Still using and drinking_ , Miles thinks, _it's obvious_.

For a second, Miles wonders how the man is still alive after all these years. He was expecting his father to have passed a long, long time ago, and spent a lot of his days in his apartment wondering if he'd ever get that call. He always expected it to be sooner than later.

_But it's not gonna be today._

He stands from his spot in the sitting area. He'd been waiting close to two hours, so his legs were a little stiff. He clenches his hands tight around the mason jar, still trying to be careful, and not let the glass crack. Some guards stop a few feet back, guns trained on Miles. He takes his hat off, tucking it into his pocket.

As soon as the hat comes off, Jude Rawlings beams a crooked smile, stopping twenty feet away. He looked terrible, lines in his face outlining the deep purple circles under his eyes. Miles almost grins knowing they've been a personal thorn in the man's side for so long.

"Mr. Upshur. This isn't so bad a meeting place," Rawlings says, gesturing to the mall.

"Save it, Rawlings. You want the Walrider, I want my dad, so let's just make the fucking trade and get this over with," Miles' voice rumbles with anger.

Rawlings chuckles, "You really think you're going to leave here alive?"

Miles shrugs, "I thought you might say that," He holds the jar up, "See this? Got your Walrider all wrapped up with a neat little bow. But, see when it threw me around in that lab, it took quite a liking to me. It sees me like a father. It does what I tell it to," He bares his teeth, "So if you start anything, so help me I'll smash this fucking jar and unleash the Walrider on the entirety of LA."

Rawlings wavers, "You wouldn't do th - "

"I like to go out with a bang, Mr. Rawlings. You've seen that, after all the times you've tried to catch me before," Miles looks to his dad, who's staring at the ground, as if dazed or asleep, "The Walrider cares about me. It's how I've fucking survived all this time. You kill me, you kill yourself, and everyone else in this fucking state."

Rawlings doesn't try to keep even a false smile up. He sighs, shoulders squared, "There's no need to be so _harsh_ now, Mr. Upshur. Hand me the Walrider, and you and your dad can go on your merry way."

Miles shakes his head, "My dad first. _Then_ I gingerly hand you the jar, and _then_ we go our separate ways. I go back to my life as a journalist, and you go back to fucking over the people of the world, and maybe the Murkoff heads won't cut you like the loss you are."

Rawlings' frown deepens. He snaps his fingers, "Lead Mr. Ville to Mr. Upshur. _Now_."

The guard with his grip on Miles' dad drags the man forward. Miles meets him in the middle, the jar held tenderly between his hands. The mercenary throws Eric Ville down onto the floor, aiming down his sights.

 _"No_ , you _idiot_ ," Rawlings yells, "Just take the fucking jar and leave the man!"

The mercenary lowers his sights. He tucks his rifle away, holding his hands out, palms up. Miles smirks, holding out the jar.

"Be careful. He can be testy sometimes," he says as he places the jar into the guard's open hand. The guard hesitates, then gingerly holds both ends of the jar with the utmost care. He backs away a few paces, before turning on his heel and carefully pacing back towards Rawlings.

Miles descends onto his dad. He pats his cheek, "Pops?"

"What are you _doing_?" Eric asks weakly, exasperated, "They'll _kill_ us."

 _Still has no faith in me. Classic dad._ Miles shakes his head, "They won't, Pops, I've got it. Can you stand?"

"Of _course_ I can," Eric groans, rising from his knees. Miles loops his arm around his dad's waist, draping the man's arm around his shoulders.

He looks to the group, "Just so you know, it's triggered by gunshots," he says with an angry grin, "Just because it's in that jar doesn't mean it can't break out if it feels like it's in danger."

Rawlings waves a hand, "Let the man pass."

The black sea parts.

Miles glances around, seeing weapons lowered. He takes a step forward, easily leading his father through. He and Rawlings share a glance. Miles can't help but smirk at the anger Rawlings lets wash off of him.

He's never rushed out of a building fast enough in his life.

Billy whoops and hollers in his head, congradulating Miles on how even tempered he was, but Miles barely pays him any mind. There's a countless number of black vans, but the only one he cares about is the one in the second parking spot to the left. The van is off, missing the hum of life, and the windows are up. He pops open the back doors, carefully laying his dad in the back seat. He shuts the doors, rounding around and hopping into the passenger seat.

" _Go_ , Park, _go_!" He yells. He looks over.

 

And Waylon isn't there.

_No. No no no no no no -_

His entire world spinning on it's head, Miles jerks his gaze around, trying to locate Waylon. There's no sight of the man. He opens the van door.

And a canister is thrown at his feet.

Miles barely has time to react. The pin was already pulled, and green smoke projects from the canister with a loud _fshhhh_. The smoke fills his lungs, choking him. His eyes sting, and he grabs at his throat, trying to suck in clean air. He stumbles, falls over, eyes rolling into the back of his head.

He hits the pavement, and it all goes black.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tee hee :) also FYI i do not think you have to forgive, communicate with, or keep in contact with an abusive parent(s)/partner/etc. How Miles feels about his own parents is how i characterize him.
> 
> Also I have a very important question to ask everyone who's taken the time to read this fic, and who's reading this note now. Even if you don't have like a lengthy comment, I'd like you to participate in this poll, but you don't have to!
> 
> Pick one:
> 
> Lynn Langermann or Blake Langermann?
> 
> No context will be given, but I'm gonna have a lot of fun with this poll based on the results so :)
> 
> Comment here, or take my twitter poll here https://twitter.com/lesbiantrolls/status/1166105473671712769


	44. Null

Kicking and screaming, Waylon fights as two armored Blackjaw mercs drag him down the long, dark hallway by his tied wrists, legs dragging and flailing. He unleashes every vile word in his head, screaming at the top of his lungs, straining his voice, making his own head pound and his bad leg pulse and his muscles burn. Neither guard pays him mind.

He still can't believe that Matheson was alive. Until Matheson had reached through the driver side window and clocked Waylon in the side of the head, rendering him unconscious, Waylon thought Billy had killed him back at the house. Waylon thinks back on that town, how it was strange how Matheson's body was untouched, whereas every other Blackjaw mercenary laid in the Park house yard in puddles and pieces. _If only I thought about it harder. Why did he let him live? Why? What was the point? He knew they would be after us._

Waylon woke up in the back of a van, tied up. One guard had knocked him out again, and he woke up a second time in a dark room in a chair. He had waited a few moments, shaking and panicking, then a light came on. That panic bloated into blind anger and rage, manifesting in a way that made Waylon bare his teeth. Matheson and his lackeys had come to retrieve him.

For what purpose, Waylon didn't want to find out. _But I don't having a fucking choice, do I?_

As he's dragged through the hallway, Matheson has his arms behind his back, following with a still face. Whatever empathy Waylon had for the man dissipates like a mist in the hot sun.

"Stop screaming," Matheson says coldly.

" _Fuck you!_ " Waylon yells, "Fuck you, y - you should be dead! Fuck you!" He kicks out towards Matheson. _If they're gonna kill me, I'm not gonna go without a Goddamn fight. I'll fight until the very fucking end._

The guards stop, and Waylon hears the click of a door. One hauls him up onto his feet, the other undoes his cuffs, and he's thrown inside. The guards stay out as Matheson steps inside the room. The door slams shut behind him.

"You know, I thought the same thing," Matheson says.

Waylon glances around the room. It's long and white and empty, thirty - by - thirty feet, bright white ceiling lights making him squint. There's a small metal table and chair in the corner. He stands, seeing that the opposite wall has a long mirror that stretches from the ceiling to his waist, a white door to the side. He looks into the mirror, touching the two purple bruises on his cheek and forehead. _I look like shit_.

"Where am I?" Waylon spins around. His head pulses, the white lights not helping his headache.

"Doesn't matter," Matheson says. He leans against the space next to the exit door.

"What am I doing here?" Waylon doesn't know why he's still alive. It would've been easier to kill him than drag him to some unnamed location. He doesn't know anything Murkoff would think would be worth knowing.

Matheson doesn't respond. He steps towards Waylon. Waylon steps back, his back pressed against the mirror behind, fists clenched. He eyes the pistol on Matheson's thigh. He doesn't have a branch this time to help defend himself, and he doubts his reflexes are faster than Matheson's.

Standing, Matheson is an inch shorter. He reaches behind Waylon, hitting a switch. There's a click and a buzz. Waylon turns around.

The mirror isn't a mirror at all, instead a window, reminding Waylon of the interrogation rooms in _Law & Order_. However, instead of a criminal, on the other side of the window was a mess of medical equipment. Sensors and machines buzz and whirr and pump, and in the middle is a container. The container in the size of a casket, rectangular and standing, hoses and wires streamlined into it. A figure is propped inside, naked, with a black box over their chest, a meter on the front showing readings Waylon can't read.

The figure has a shaved head and jaw, so it takes a few seconds for Waylon to recognize him, but as soon as Waylon does, he feels fire explode over his skin, shattering him.

Waylon beats on the glass with his fists, teeth bared, anger and panic and hate spiking through him. He calls out Miles' name again and again, hoping it will wake him up.

It doesn't.

 _"Fuck!"_ He yells. He bashes against the window one last time, turning around, "What the fuck did you _do?_!"

"I didn't do anything. He's infected by the Walrider. He's alive, if comatose."

"What do you mean _infected_?"

"The Walrider was killing him. It fed off his body, causing his organs to shut down. That piece on his chest is the only thing keeping him breathing."

Waylon purses his lips. _That's not true. Billy wouldn't do that, it's not true,_ "Where's his dad?" He can't fight the shake in his voice.

"Alive. Eric Ville didn't think he'd would come if we called. I didn't realize Upshur would call so quickly."

Confused, Waylon stares.

"Oh, didn't know? Mr. Ville was working with us. He's back in LA, probably shooting the check we sent him straight into his arm," He says it with no humor.

Waylon grasps onto the edge of the window to keep himself from collapsing.

"It wasn't hard. Upshur is a dangerous man. I'm surprised you're still alive - "

" _Shut the fuck up!_ " Waylon lunges forward. _No more hiding, no more fear_. He grabs Matheson by the front of his kevlar vest, " _Don't fucking talk about him!_ "

Matheson barely blinks in response, "Why are you getting mad at _me?_ _You_ did this to yourselves. You knew the risks, and one of the risks were the both of you getting caught," he grabs Waylon's wrists, kicking the shin of Waylon's bad leg. Waylon crumples with a yelp, grip slipping. Matheson stands towering over him, planting his boot on Waylon's ankle before he can stand himself up.

Waylon has never felt so small, so angry, so _powerless_ in his entire life. He feels more disarmed than he ever did back at Mount Massive. He stares up with a hateful gaze.

"There's still a way for you to walk out of this, Waylon," Matheson drawls out, "All you have to do is tell me where the Walrider is. That little jar trick stopped as soon as we apprehended Upshur. It's not out and about, but it couldn't have possibly been destroyed, you don't have the ability to do so. You tell us where it is, we take it, and you go back home. Back to that little dinky town of Pinewood," He presses his boot harder, tilts his head lower, meeting Waylon's eyes, "It's you or him, Waylon. Remember, Murkoff is still angry with you for blowing the whistle on Mount Massive."

"I'd rather _die_ than tell you fucking _anything_ ," Waylon growls, but the growl gets lost in a yelp of pain as Matheson's boot slams down on his leg.

"Don't be an idiot. You have a family, don't you?"

Waylon's eyes snap wide, " _Fuck off -_ "

"How would your sons feel knowing they would never see their father ever again? How old are they, ten and twelve? Old enough to remember you for the rest of their lives," he grimaces, "Maybe, one day, they'll come looking for you. I've only watched a few short cuts on the news of your wife, seeing her beg for any word on you, but she seemed very headstrong and spirited," he shrugs, "Maybe she'll come looking for you instead. I know _I_ wouldn't want anyone I knew coming within a hundred miles of this place. Especially if the one coming was my wife."

Waylon's blood runs colds at the very mention of his wife, "Please, please don't hurt her. Leave them alone, _please_ \- "

"We won't have to go to them, Waylon. People always come for missing loved ones, especially if the one missing is a spouse. Murkoff can be very patient when they want to. They're very calculated in their approach. With a thousand scientists on their payroll, all it would take was a letter, or a clue to your whereabouts, maybe sent by you."

"I wouldn't - "

"I said _maybe_ sent by you. It would just be a made - up ploy, but it would be enough to get a desperate wife or son on the road to your location."

" _Stop_ \- "

"Only _you_ can stop this, Waylon. It's him," Matheson tilts his head to the window, "Or it's you," he tilts his head to the exit door.

All of the life and energy inside Waylon's body disappears at the end of his sentence. He stares up, mouth shut, burning his gaze into Matheson's eyes, breathing hard through his nostrils.

Matheson sneers, "How long have you known this man. Two weeks? Why do you care so much about him? What has he done for you that puts him over your family?"

"He _is_ family!" Waylon snaps, "We're - " He stops himself. He snaps his mouth shut. _Shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit._

A light shines in Matheson's eyes, face softening.

 _"Ah_. I see now," He lifts his boot from Waylon's leg. He kneels down, still towering over Waylon. Strangely enough, it's not as threatening, "Maybe there is a way for you both to survive this. That's what you want, right?"

"Fuck off," Waylon keeps his eyes fixed on the tiled ground, voice shaking.

"For someone who's first language is English, you don't have a very broad vocabulary," he leans closer, "I'm trying to give you an out, Waylon."

"I have nothing to say," Waylon would rather suffer a horrible, painful death than ever betray Miles or Billy.

Matheson gives him an understanding nod, then stands, "Maybe not right now, but you will. I'm giving you, and this is a lot of time to think, _one_ hour," he rolls his sleeve up, setting a time on his watch, "To make up your mind. You either tell us what we want to know, or we'll kill you, and you'll never see your family again," he slowly steps to the exit door, back to Waylon, "I recommend you take the offer, Waylon," he says over his shoulder.

The door opens. Matheson steps out. The door closes.

Waylon yells.

 

 

  
-

 

 

  
Time passed. How much, Waylon wasn't sure, but he felt like he was wading through sand as he paced. He could hear the beeps and whirs of the machinery on the other side of the window. He scratched at his arms, staring at Miles' floating form. He called out to him and Billy a few times, trying not to break down as silence answered.

One hour. He has one hour to decide what he's going to do. He's no match for armed guards. He's already tried to jiggle the handle of the exit door, and the door to Miles' chamber, but they're locked.

_I'm trapped._

With an angry yell, he kicks at the chamber door, and shoves his hands in his pockets.

And hits something solid.

Waylon pauses. He takes out the item. It's Billy's little blue radio. Waylon tightens his grip around it. He never remembered it being so heavy. It was definitely much heavier than his old radio, that was for sure.

A thought pops into his head. He looks at the window.

_Could I....?_

Waylon doesn't have any other option but to try.

 _First things first_. He grabs the metal chair from it's corner, propping it under the metal doorknob of the exit door, leaving the table, as it was too heavy for him to move. He approaches the window. He pulls his arm back, and bashes the radio into the glass.

It warbles, but doesn't break.

_Just a little more Waylon, c'mon. They're counting on you._

He pulls his arm back, slams the radio again.

This time, tiniest crack appears in the glass.

He sucks in quick, nervous breaths. _Just a little more, c'mon. They're counting on you._

He pulls his arm, and uses every last bit of strength he has to bash the radio into the glass.

The window shatters, Waylon's arm running straight through.

An alarm blares, the white of the room being bathed in red. _Shit_. Quickly, with adrenaline running his body, Waylon smashes the glass at the opening, trying to make it larger. Behind him, the door handle jiggles, banging and yelling coming from the other side. As soon as the hole is large enough for Waylon to crawl through, he does, rolling in the broken glass on the other side, happy that he still had his canvas coat on.

Wasting no time, Waylon grabs a tall metal pole with wheels at the bottom, an IV pole not in use. He raises the pole.

He doesn't bother wondering what could happen if he broke anything, because who had the time when you smash a window and set off an alarm? He knocks over equipment, bashes in glass screens. He rips the wires from the glass casket, sparks flying, the red lights above flickering. He beats against the glass casing Miles was housed in.

"Wake _up_ ," he says with each smack, " _Wake up_. C'mon, Miles, _come on_ , wake up!"

He didn't hear the guards beat both doors down.

Cracks appear in the glass.

_Yes, yes, yes!_

He beats it again. And again. And again. The crack growing, and growing, and growing.

A swarm of four agents descend on Waylon. He can barely hear Matheson's yelling as they rip the pole from his hand, pull at his clothes, tackle him to the ground. His mind flashes back to the asylum, the attacks he's suffered. He yells, screams, kicks, uses every bit of strength he has fighting back.

But it's no use. One guard raises his gun.

With a crack against his forehead, everything goes black.

 

 

  
-

 

 

  
His brain in a fog, Waylon's head lolls to the side. He attempts to grab his head, but his arms don't raise. He pulls, looks down. He's strapped into a metal chair, leather bindings around him. He struggles, finding his legs are strapped in as well. He looks around the room he's in. It's small, eight - feet - by - eight - feet, the walls and floor white wooden paneling. A metal bedframe with a stripped mattress sits next to him. Across from where he sits, there's a white door with a small glass window. He's out of his clothes, replaced by a clean, cream - colored shirt and pants. An asylum outfit that's dangerously close to the one he wore back at Mount Massive.

Shaking, sweating, his stomach curling and knotting, Waylon starts rocking in his seat. _Get me out get me out get me out -_

_Miles. Billy._

The casket had broken. Even the smallest crack could've given Billy the space he needed to escape.

Breathing heavily, Waylon rocks. He feels the back leg of the chair warble. _Feels loose._

A shadow passes the small, square window of the door. Waylon stops his movements, head snapping forward.

The door opens, Jude Rawlings entering. Matheson slips in behind him, closing the door, blocking it with his body. Rawlings' face was calm.

"Mr. Park," He says with disdain, "You've been a real _fucking_ pain in my side. Whatever was offered to you before, consider it off the table."

His heart dropping in his stomach, Waylon scowls, "I don't care what you offered. You guys are fucking _monsters_ , and I don't make deals with monsters," He struggles against the binds on his wrists, clawing at the arm of the chair.

Rawlings crosses his arms, smirking, "That's great and fine, Mr. Park, but you really don't know what you've done for us, do you?"

Waylon pauses, a shiver passing through his body. He stares. _What the fuck does he mean?_

"We thought you had hidden the Walrider, Mr. Park. We were scouring that little van you stole from us, looking everywhere we could, following every lead that came to our attention. That little distraction you caused actually helped us in our favor, rather than yours," he sighs, light and quick, hands behind his back, "Even _I_ didn't expect was for Mr. Upshur to be carrying the Walrider inside of him."

The world stops. _Shit_.

"Where is he?" Waylon demands, "What did you _do?_ " He can't stop the horrible imagery of Miles, alive on an operating table from crossing his mind, Billy stuck in a glass unit.

Or worse, in another host.

"Mr. Upshur is alive. For now, anyway. When he removed the Walrider, it worked like a reverse transplant. It was like if you took out a lung of a healthy young man and implanted the lung of a seventy year - old smoker. Ah, I won't bother you with the details, it's a little boring," Rawlings paces the floor, "If you want to hear my opinion, I think Upshur was dead before that thing ever got to him."

Waylon wants to vomit. _He's not dead. He's a living, breathing man, loves and laughs like the rest of us. He's not dead. He's not_. He keeps his gaze on the floor. Rawlings grabs his chin, forcing him to look up. His hand burns Waylon's skin, like acid.

"Don't feel so bad, Mr. Park. At least his last few days on this planet will be a comfortable few."

Waylon jerks his head away, attempting to jump from the chair. He's unsuccessful, but Rawlings rears back still. He scowls, fixes his suit.

"Make sure Mr. Park is comfortable here," he says, clearing his throat, "He's traveled with the Walrider for a while. I want a full interrogation in a few hours."

"I don't know," Matheson says, "He didn't seem to know much when I talked to him before."

"Because you _talked_ to him, Matheson. We need a harsher approach."

Matheson looks down, to Waylon, to Rawlings, "I'm not sure - "

Rawlings points a finger to Matheson's face, stepping closer, "Remember what happened in Colorado, Matheson. _You_ let them go, don't forget that."

Matheson purses his lips. He nods, "Yes sir."

"Then get the fuck out of my way."

Matheson steps to the side.

"Goodbye, Park," Rawlings says, "See you in a bit."

As soon as the door closes, Waylon's head snaps to Matheson.

"Please," he whispers, eyes welling, "You can't let them do this."

"It's not my choice anymore, Waylon," he turns.

Waylon rattles in his seat, "Do you know why Bil - why the Walrider let you live?"

Matheson stops. He turns his head, looking over his shoulder.

Waylon pulls everything that comes out of his mouth through his ass, "The Walrider saw you. He - It, saw something in you that it didn't want to kill. There's...." He claws at the arms of the chair, "There's some good in you. You can still fix this. Miles doesn't deserve this, _please_."

The other man snorts, "There's no g - "

" _Please_ ," Waylon begs. A tear rolls down his cheek, "He'll _die_ without the Walrider."

"He was already _dying_ , Park."

"I spent all that fucking time with him. I wasn't travelling with a fucking dead man, now was I? You weren't talking to a dead man before, were you?"

A pause.

"At least let me see him. _Please_ ," _He'll die, alone, and it'll be my fault. It'll be all my fucking fault that he's dead, that Billy is captured, and that I've failed everyone I ever fucking cared about._

Matheson turns his head straight. He opens the door, and closes it behind him without another word.

The walls seem to rattle with the angy, sad yell Waylon unleashes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHOAH two chapters in one day. I had the day off today so i was just going CRAZY. Because Miles is passed out this whole time it's all Waylon, but i was like......writing and i was like "shit ok this is a lot of waylon" so the next 3 (give or take) chapters itll just be waylon. But i'm having so much fun with these next chapters so :)
> 
> Lynn vs Blake poll https://twitter.com/lesbiantrolls/status/1166105473671712769
> 
> word ok! thanks for reading!


	45. //////////////

**I keep screaming, but no one can hear me.**

**They take me from his body, suck me out like I'm venom in a wound. They rip me from the warmth and safety of him. My new home. My new family.**

**The second time they've ripped me from the people I care about.**

**I beat against the glass. Angry, like a swarm of bees.**

**That's what I am to them. The Swarm. The Walrider.**

**Miles lays limp in the white bed. His olive skin looks so pale. When did they shave his hair? He looks terrible. Wires and tubes stick to his arms, through his nose and mouth.**

**They carry me in a small case of glass and metal. I prod at the ends, trying to find an opening, even the smallest sliver of space.**

**I find none.**

**I'm placed in a translucent cooler. I hate the cold, and bare my teeth like a snarling dog. Don't put me in there. They place me on a cart, escorting me through double doors.**

**" Bring me back to him," I say, "Put me back," He'll die without my nanos keeping his body together.**

**Nobody hears me.**

**Everyone around me are wearing blue hazmat suits, with big gloves and boots. Another Murkoff Facility?**

**If only I had payed more attention. I was so concerned with making sure Miles' father was OK, I didn't bother to run ahead. I've gotten us all caught. This is my fault, all my fault.**

**" Where's Waylon?" I ask myself. He could be here. He could not be here. He could be alive. He could be dead.**

**Either way, it chills me knowing that I've failed him. That I've failed both of them.**

**If I could take form, I would cry.**

**They take me into an elevator. There's silence, the four technicians escorting me not saying a word. The elevator doors open.**

**I'm greeted by the sight of a woman.**

**Surprised, I look to her. She had short hair, stray pieces covering her forehead. Her blue eyes are glazed over, like a child's doll. She's wearing a cream shirt and pants. An outfit that was similar to the ones I've worn, and seen others wear, back at Mount Massive. A male nurse comes behind her, escorts her away. Behind her, I see many other women pass through the hallways, all dressed the same, herded by male attendants.**

**The surprise melts into anger. Female patients. I beat a little more aggressively against the glass.**

**The elevator doors close again, taking us straight down, down, down......**

**We stop a few moments after. I didn't keep track of the floors, but we were many levels down.**

**It dawns on me. Another asylum. Another lab. I shiver to think of the horrors subjected onto the women here.**

**They push me through many doorways, people passing by. I keep looking for Waylon. I keep searching for blond hair and tan skin, for a limp in the left leg.**

**I don't see him.**

**That scares me.**

**Finally, the cart stops. The room they've stopped me in was a cooler, large and wide, walls covered in ice. Blue barrels line the edges of the room. There's a metal stand in the middle of the freezer. One attendant lifts me from the cooler by himself. I must be light, he does it so easily. He places me gingerly onto the stand. The technicians mutter low to each other, then quickly exit.**

**I'm left alone.**

**Fools. There's not even a surrounding glass chamber to house me.**

**I wait a few minutes, painstakingly so. When I'm satisfied no one will come through the cooler, I bounce at the top of the container I'm in. It pops a slight bit from the stand. I smile to myself. They didn't even tie me down.**

**" Don't get cocky," I tell myself, "Rescue Miles and Waylon first, then pat yourself on the back."**

**I hit the top of my prison. Once. Twice. Three times. Four times.**

**The fifth time, I loosen from my metal stand, and smash upon the ground. I leak out of**

**I stretch out in a cloud. I can breathe and move, but I don't feel free.**

**A single objective pops into my mind, like a warning message on a screen:**

**Find Miles.**

**I filter through a vent in the ceiling. I pass by the slots of vents, looking inside. I see a tall mess of blond pass by one. I filter out, excited.**

**As soon as I do, an alarm blares. The room blinks red.**

**The mess of blond turns around, and a man who isn't Waylon grimaces. He puts a black helmet on, shouldering a Blackjaw - issued assault rifle. Others join his side, grouping together, barking words at each other. There's at least twelve of them in this room.**

**The sight enrages me. Blackjaw. Nothing but a cloud of hornets.**

**I dart through the vent, grabbing one by the back of his uniform.**

**I drag him into the air, rip him up, and a feeling of catharsis washes over me.**

**I can barely see as the room erupts into a red mist, even the blinking red alarm seeming muted.**

**Men shout, bullets fly.**

**Bodies twist, crumple, separate, flay and crawl.**

**I want to make them pay for what they've done.**

**I unleash my rage freely.**

**" You took me," I yell, even though my voice falls deafly onto their ears, "You hurt me. You hurt my friends. I'll kill you. I'll kill you all for what you've done."**

**No one escapes alive.**

**I stop when everything else in the room stops.**

**I look at the carnage.**

**I feel nothing. Nothing for men who stand by and let people get hurt. The timidness I ever had for killing was gone. It's refreshed in my mind, giving me purpose:**

**Kill Blackjaw. Kill Murkoff. Save Waylon. Save Miles. Save the innocents here.**

**Let the rest rot.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blake vs Lynn poll
> 
> https://twitter.com/lesbiantrolls/status/1166105473671712769
> 
> Vote there or comment here!


	46. Red

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS FOR: Graphic violence

Waylon stands on his toes, drops his weight onto the chair. He's been trying for thirty minutes to break himself out of his restraints, black bugs crawling over the walls and floors. He doesn't try to stop the tears from falling.

He's so sick of feeling like he's powerless. He's going to find Billy, save Miles, and go home. _And I'm not going to fail._

He rocks forward, planting his feet flat on the ground. He almost crumples from the weight it puts on his bad leg, but with a strained yell, he jumps, lands on the back legs of the chair.

The chair gives way. Waylon yelps as he falls backwards, the chair collapsing under him. The leather straps on his wrists come undone, screws breaking off.

He breathes a laugh. _Fuck, yes!_

Above him, the white light of the room blinks red, an alarm blaring.

 _No time to celebrate. Fuck, was that me?_ He wipes his eyes as he rips the leather straps off of his ankles. He stands, the blinking red lights and the sirens pulsing against his already aching head, his leg rippling with pain. _I've been through worse,_ he thinks, _This is nothing. I can't let a headache and a bad leg put themselves between me and Miles and Billy._

He braces himself against the white door, peering through the small glass window. The lights flicker, people running through the outside hallway. _What are they running from?_

A shadow passes by the window. Waylon recedes back. The shadow stands there, then moves slowly away.

The door clicks, slides open.

There's no one on the other side.

Cautiously, Waylon pokes his head out. Through the breaks in the alarm, he can see the white and light green walls of the hallway, the floor under his feet tiled. It looked like a rest home, Or another asylum. People run by him, their yelling unheard over the sirens. A young woman barrels into him. When she looks up, her eyes go wide. She yells, rips herself away, and runs.

As she goes, Waylon's blood goes cold as he notices her asylum outfit.

Quickly, he looks at the numerous people passing. All of them were women. Though they were of different races and sizes, they were all young, Waylon not noticing anyone older than forty. He grits his teeth. _Fucking monsters. Kidnapping women? Are they fucking serious?_

He looks down the hall, on his left as the last women rushes past him.

He sees just the hint of pale skin and white hair as the elevator doors close.

To his right, there's the sound of bullets flying. Waylon ducks back into his room, crouching low in the doorway, watching. There's the yell of a man, and a Blackjaw agent comes flying from the corridor, hitting the wall. He screams, gun slipping from his hand. His chest explodes in a mess of blood. The man gurgles, then falls limp.

The alarm buzzes, long and loud, then cuts.

" _Waylon_!" A voice yells over the PA system.

Waylon exhales, "Billy? Is that you?"

"It's me!" Cold encases Waylon's body in what he can only guess is a hug, "What happened to you?"

"Blackjaw knocked me out. I - I tried to get to you, I saw Miles in that tank," tears fall from his eyes. _**He got out, he got out, he got out.**_

"I know. We have to get to him," Billy inhales, "I don't know if Miles has told you, but when I first took over his body in Mount Massive, he died."

Waylon inhales a shaky breath, " _What_?"

"Blackjaw stormed the lower labs. They shot at him, killed him. I brought him back. My nanotech is the only thing that can keep him alive."

He tries to grab at the chill around him, "What about you?"

"I can go as long as I have the energy on hand, but without a host, I don't have much time."

With a sense of urgency, Waylon nods to the air, "Then we don't have any time to waste."

"There's an elevator at the end of the hall. Quickly, I don't know how long Miles has."

Waylon gets halfway down the hall before the elevator doors open. He skids to a stop as five armored guards step out of the elevator.

"Hey!" One yells, "That's Waylon Park!"

"Kill him," their guns cock in unison.

 _Shit_.

A cold force pushes Waylon out of the hallway, into an open room. He hits the wooden floor harshly, covering his head as bullets fly past the doorway. Men scream, and there's the telltale sound of fabric and meat being torn. Waylon scrambles into an upright position, just as an agent is flung into the opposite, open room. The door slams shut as he screams behind.

Waylon watches the small, clear window become spattered with red.

"Clear," Billy says through the PA system, "Careful, it's slippery."

The smell of blood hits Waylon like a brick wall. He blinks, nostrils burning. The white and green of the walls were dyed crimson, chunks of flesh and clothing laid out randomly. Waylon walks carefully in pockets of empty space, stepping through puddles. Small, black insects start to crawl out from the dismembered body parts. He scowls. What he wouldn't give to have his boots on right now.

"What floor is he on?" Waylon asks as he steps into the elevator. A man lays in a dead heap in the corner.

"Three floors up," Billy says, this time through a speaker in the corner roof of the elevator, "I've got it."

Buttons of the elevator panel light up. It jerks, Waylon stumbling a bit. The doors slide close. It goes up, then the elevator shakes, lights flickering. It comes to a halt, lights shutting off. Waylon stands in darkness, bristling.

"Shit, _fuck_ ," he throws his hands up, "C'mon, we don't have _time_ for this!"

"Something's wrong with the power," Billy says, as a red light blinks on, "Emergency power. The backup generators kicked on, I think. We'll have to take the stairs."

A dent appears in the center of the elevator doors. Waylon leaps back with a yell.

"That was me!" Billy says.

"Jesus Christ, _warn_ me at least!" Waylon presses against the back of the elevator.

"Sorry," he continues to break open the elevator doors, pushing them apart. The elevator had stopped dead in the middle of the floor they exited, and the floor above, "Do you need help getting up?" Billy asks.

"No. I've got it," _What am I, a little old man?_ Waylon plants his palms flat on the floor above, hauling himself up with a grunt. He stands.

The hallway above is identical to the one below, a mess of items and papers scattered on the floors, different doors haphazardly open, some closed. The only light source is the red emergency lights above. It's deathly quiet.

Waylon grimaces, "Waylon Park vs. the Murkoff Corporation, round two."

 

 

  
-

 

 

  
"Mount Massive 2.0," Waylon says ruefully as he feels along the wall. Though bathed in light, the red burned his eyes, deepened the shadow. It felt like a filter, rather than a light, "Where the fuck are the stairs?" His skin pricked with anxiety, sweating. They needed to get to Miles, and fast.

There's no response from the PA system.

"...Billy?" Waylon calls out.

There's a scream from down the hall, and Waylon freezes. He ducks into an open room, just peering out. Two Blackjaw agents came running, their helmets cracked, guns gone. One tries to veer to the left hallway, but gets knocked into the wall instead. There's a loud crack, and he falls still and limp on the floor. The other skids, turning to the elevator. He freezes. His head snaps on a swivel. The agents sinks to his knees, falling forward, helmet now backwards on his body.

"Clear," Billy says.

"Are you just killing every agent in the building?" His tone is a soft mix of bewilderment and curiosity.

"Yes. Why? Is that wrong?"

"No," he pauses, thinking of the pale figure he saw at the end of the hallway.

"Do you feel sorry for them?"

"No, no no no, most of them probably deserve it," he steps out of the room, walking carefully past the two agents. Anyone who can sell themselves and live to beat, kidnap, and kill people for a profit don't deserve a day on this earth.

"Good. I'm going to gut every single one of them," Billy says coldly.

Waylon shivers, "Go crazy, buddy. No way I can stop you."

They navigate the long hallways. Through the dark red light, Waylon can see a small, illuminating red exit sign, and a little black sign with the image of a set of stairs next to it. He quickly runs to the door, pushing it open. The stairs are dark and red, but empty.

"I'll navigate ahead, you just keep going."

"Alright," _Just follow Billy's lead. He's the immortal one, not you._

Waylon ascends the three floors, and when he reaches the third, he has to stop. His leg pulses, extremely painful. He pulls his pant leg up, seeing dark bruises on his skin. _Shit. Could be sprained._

But he doesn't have time to take a break. Billy and Miles need him to pull through, _And they can't wait for my ankle to stop hurting._

He pushes open the door.

The butt of a gun bashes him in the side of the head.

Ears ringing, Waylon twists, seeing a mercenary to the side. He doesn't have the chance to raise his hands to shield himself as he's shouldered to the ground. The agent leers over him, gun pointed directly at his chest.

" _Down_ ," the agent growls.

He pulls the trigger. The bullet hits Waylon right in the center of his left shoulder, pain blooming. Waylon clutches at the wound, groaning in pain. His eyes glance to the side.

There's a checkpoint in the center of the hallway. It's messily built, but it's a checkpoint, like the ones back at Mount Massive. _They must've began building them as soon as they got their hands on Miles. How long have we fucking been here?_

In the center of the checkpoint, a black swarm beats against the glass.

_Oh, fuck, Billy!_

The agent stares down at Waylon, then takes off his helmet. His features are boring, with a bald head. He sucks in a breath, face twisting with anger as he starts kicking at Waylon's body.

Brain thinking faster than his body, Waylon yelps loud, then pretends to fall limp. He tries not to react as the agent kicks him again, and again, and again, heavy boots breaking his ribs, bruising every part of him. Waylon aches, pain exploding all over his body, but he keeps his pained sounds to himself.

Once the agent stops, and Waylon hears him step away, Waylon cracks an eye. The agent has his back to Waylon, grabbing a long, cylindrical glass container with metal ends.

Waylon, through his pained daze, sees a pile of materials. All tools, and other objects. He looks for something heavy and strong, seeing a metal pipe sticking from a pile, catching the red emergency light. He crawls to the pile, ignoring the screaming in his body, grabbing the pipe. He stands, using the wall to support himself. He can feel every bone in his body shift and crack.

The agent places the container to a strange, cylindrical lock in the center of the checkpoint doors. Billy's smoky form is sucked into the container with a loud screech.

Waylon carefully stumbles forward tasting copper, adrenaline beating hard in his veins, making his eyes wide, pulsing in his head.

He raises the pipe, gripping it with both hands, brings it down hard on the agent's skull, pain rippling through his shoulder.

"Get -"

The agent crumples, the container leaping out of his hands.

"Your hands - "

Waylon swings his arms down, using all his strength.

"Off - "

He hits the agent, hearing a crack.

" _Him._ "

Waylon pulls the pipe up, crashes it back down with a wet sound. He pulls his arms back, half of the weapon breaking off in the agent's skull. Blood soaks his bare feet, the agent face down on the floor, the back of his head a dark pool amassing under him. Waylon blinks away tears. He throws the broken instrument onto the ground, picking up the containment unit Billy was caught in.

Black smoke swirls, beats against the tempered glass. Waylon searches for a way to open the casing, but finds no latch, no button, no way to twist either end. With a yell, he throws it to the ground, using all of the force he can muster.

The glass cracks. A tiny, miniscule fracture, barely the length of a pinky nail.

Unimaginable pain hits Waylon as the black smoke seethes out, sifting into him. It felt like glass coursing through his veins. Waylon crumples onto his knees, sliding in blood.

".......Waylon....."

Billy's voice doesn't come out through the PA system. It doesn't come distorted, with static. It comes out clear, like Billy is right next to him. Waylon can barely breath, like sand had filled his lungs, gasping, trying to hold onto what miniscule air that was in his chest.

"......Have......get.....Miles......"

No, not next to him. _Inside_ of him. Billy was speaking from _inside_ of his head. A loud ring shakes in his mind. Waylon grasps at himself, crying out in pain.

"Sorry......sorry......so sorry......"

Waylon's heart stops.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uh oh,
> 
> thank you everyone who took part in the poll i placed! Blake won by a wide margin, 7:2
> 
> i was hoping lynn would've won, because i thought that the storyline i built for her vote was pretty interesting, but i do like the one ive done for blake so it's a win - win imo!
> 
> anyway, I'm having so mucch fun writing these next few chapters. I always have a good time writing action scenes :) hehehee. i like doing POV switches too, so when i had to do Billy's chapter, i went wild LOL.
> 
> thanks for reading, next chapter should be soon :)


	47. Blake the Unbreakable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS FOR: Allusions to previous sexual assault, graphic violence and gore

" _Say it."_

Blake's head lolls to the blur in front of him. He recognizes the voice as Jude Rawlings, but the body is nothing but a smear in Blake's vision. He looks down at his hands, seeing red blurs where his crucifixion wounds were. The cuffs around his wrist were clipped to the table. _Can't even get the itch on my fucking nose._

Murkoff captured Miles Upshur two days ago, and once they got wind that Blake and him were connected, they've beaten and interrogated him for two days straight, demanding to know what he knew about the Walrider, on top of what he saw at Temple's Gate. _If only they found my camera. They'd just kill me. Too bad. They want any of this motherfucking information, they'll have to work extra hard for it._

Blake doesn't know what happened to Miles, and it burns like a hot pit in his chest knowing it.

"Tell us what you know about the Walrider. Upshur was at your apartment, and so was that thing, so tell us what we want to fucking know or so fucking _help_ me I'll - "

"You'll what?" Blake asks blankly, leaning back in his seat, "You'll kill me?" He smiles, "You've already taken everything else from me. My wife, my daughter, why not add my fucking life to it, too? I've got nothing left."

"We've already told you, Mr. Langermann, your," Rawlings' hands move, " _Daughter_ ," he says it with a strange tone, almost viciscious, "Was a bundle of rags, there was nothing fucking _there_ \- " he sighs angrily, the blur of his hand melding with his face.

Not that Rawlings is wrong. Once Blake passed out, and woke up with only a bundle of cloth in his arms, he knew what had happened. And _oh_ , he wailed, and those wails led Murkoff right to him.

It was horrible. He lost Jessica all over again, this time with his wife right behind her.

"I can be very patient when I want to, Mr. Langermann, but your friends have been a real _fucking_ pain in my ass," Rawlings' voice raises to a yell, looming over Blake, "So tell us what we want to know - "

The dim lights of the interrogation room blink red. Blake looks up, the alarm blaring, making the ringing in his ears louder. It hadn't stopped since he saw the earth swallowed up by the sun.

He doesn't know what to do with himself, now that he knows the world is still intact, and everything he went through was for naught. He closes his eyes, opening them again to look at Rawlings.

Rawlings motions to a black smear in the corner, "Take this motherfucker back to his room."

The Blackjaw agent approaches, undoes Blake's cuffs, lifts him up by his arm, and leads him out. Blake has trouble keeping with the agent's pace as they lead him through the hallway, his feet dragging.

"Sorry," Blake says, "Trying to keep up. I think the last beating you gave me hurt my ankle," and his ankle did pulse, slightly swelling.

The agent doesn't respond. Someone comes whipping around the corner, bumping into Blake, and knocking him down, out of the mercenary's hold. The person is a woman, with short hair and eyes that are glazed over. _A patient_.

He stayed deathly still on the floor. He had spent close to thirteen days in the Howling Coyote Women's Rehab Facility. He wasn't sure what state was in, but from the chattering of the people here, and the signage, he made the logical conclusion that the facility was probably in Arizona. From what Blake had gathered so far, the women here were past addicts, all having been sent here for answering ads and solicitors, finally knowing they needed help, and looking for that help in the form of outreach programs.

Who would ever blink at a missing drug addict?

They were imprisoned, forced to participate in experimental drug trials, subjected to worse, things that Blake was powerless to stop happening to them, and to him.

The women had looked upon him with fear and hate, with sadness and compassion, and they were never left alone by the attendants there. It has to be some Goddamn breach of security for a few of them to run around unattended.

"Hey!" The agent yells. The woman scrambles away, running. The agent sighs angrily, pointing down at Blake, "Stay here," he orders, and runs off for the woman.

Blake smirks, "Whatever you say. I'll be here," Blake has been very careful to not stir the pot at his time here. He doesn't know why. He has nothing left. He failed his wife, she was tortured and killed back at that cursed town, and he failed Jessica for a second time. He didn't care what happened to him anymore. He just wanted to sink into the earth.

Blake shifts, his hand hitting something.

 _Huh. Weird, what the fuck is this?_ His fingers close against something slim and warm. His eyes widen.

_Aren't I fucking lucky?_

He sits up, unfolds the glasses in his hands. _This must've been that woman's._ Blake was legally blind without his glasses, and Murkoff made sure he stayed blind at his time at the facility. He lost his original pair back at Temple Gate, and if he gave a shit about money anymore, he would mourn the $300 pair. Though he felt slightly guilty for taking the poor patient's items, he slid them on.

It was like he could breathe again. _Just my fucking luck, she's has the same condition_. When Blake turned 25, he went to a clinic with complaints about a pulsing behind his eyes. He learned he had advanced presbyopia, and had to wear these gaudy, expensive glasses to protect his eyes, surgery a bright gleam in the future.

He stares at the tiled wall clearly, looking down at his body. He's covered with crusted blood, vomit, mud, other things he never wanted to think about being covered in. The facility never changed him out of his clothes, and through the rips he could see bruises and cuts, both old and new, flesh scarred and scabbed over. He stares at his scarred, wounded hands, seeing Miles' own hand wounds in his mind's eye.

He breathes, shaky. He looks up, at the emergency lighting, watching them flash clear red.

Another chance.

He laughs, loud, and from his gut, as long as his lungs will allow.

_Oh, another chance! I've got another fuckin' chance! Jess, Lynn, if you're watching me now, keep fucking watching. I'm getting out of here. I won't let your light go unseen._

He can feel them watching him, from all angles, encouraging him on. He stands, careful. He leans a hand on the wall, using it to support himself. He's been through this wing of the facility plenty of times, been dragged back and forth to the interrogations rooms, Murkoff trying to squeeze any bit of information from him as they could.

Not that Blake gave them anything. _Blake the Unbreakable_ , Lynn used to joke. It was his last ' _Fuck you,'_ to the people who've destroyed his life, and countless others.

The interrogation wing was two floors below the ground floor. Last time he eavesdropped on some of the guards, the security office was on the top floor, near the medical wing. Like any office of security, there should be an override to the alarm above. And where there's an override for an alarm, there's an override for a lockdown.

_That's it. I get to the security office, I unlock all the fucking doors, and I call for help. Should be easy enough._

He slowly navigates the winding corridors. Blake was still conscious _(Most of the time)_ as they dragged him back to the holding rooms, which was just another room on the housing floors, so it was barely as issue getting to the elevator.

As the elevator doors shut, Blake wonders where Miles could be. _He could be anywhere in this fucking facility._

The elevator goes up.

He thinks of stopping, getting off on a random floor to look for him. _Him and that ghost following him around_. Blake still can't believe he's carrying around the Swarm inside him, _and the Swarm talks back!_

As he passes one floor, he hears gunfire and screaming.

.......Maybe it would be better to stay on his task of radioing for help. Hopefully within the chaos, Blackjaw will loosen it's grip on the facility, and Blake will be able to search freely.

 _Hopefully_.

 

 

  
-

 

 

 

  
He reaches the top floor, the elevator opening up on the medical wing. The white walls and floors are bathed in eerie red light. He exits the elevator, hearing it close behind him. He looks at the walls, looking for signs pointing to an office of some sort.

Down the hall, around a corner, there's yelling, and the flashes of gunfire. _Fuck_. He darts through the open hallway, slipping into an open room with a dark door, shutting it softly and locking it.

He turns around, and is greeted by a line of lockers, a small table in front. He looks at the papers on the table, noticing a file labeled SECURITY. He looks to the right. There was a large control panel, and a series of screens and monitors.

Blake smirks. _Leading me there, huh girls? OK, let's shut this place fucking down_. He approaches the control panel. He traces lightly over the different colored buttons, some blinking.

"If I was an override, which would I...."

His gaze glances over a big red button encased in glass, big block letters reading SYSTEM OVERRIDE.

 _Oh, too fucking easy! Too fucking easy, ladies!_ He can feel their hands guide his to the button, helping him lift the glass casing, clenching his fist and smashing it down.

The red lights and alarms stop blinking, the power shutting down. Every monitor blinks out at the same time. There's silence, no light, nothing, then a loud _thud_ , and the lights come back on, this time in a steady, dark red.

With the widest smile he's worn since his wedding day, Blake watches each monitor blink back on, one at a time, all of them reflecting snow. _Override shut down the power. Emergency generators probably kicked on_. He fingers around the panels, noticing a ham radio in the corner. _Just keeps getting better and better!_ He grabs the radio, switching to an emergency channel.

He raises the radio speaker, "Break, break break, break emergency, break emergency," he fidgets with the dial until the static ends, "Break emergency, break," he can barely remember the conduct for radioing for help.

" _We hear you, sir, what's your emergency?_ " A woman answers on the other end.

Blake sighs in relief, "My name is Blake Langermann, and I'm at the Howling Coyote Women's Rehab Facility somewhere in Arizona. I - I don't know the address. This place is fucking run my animals, we need medical and police on scene, stat!"

" _How many are injured?_ " Her voice drowns out with static.

"I don't know," he fiddles with the dials, "There's a lot of people here. I've been hearing gunfire, and people are running."

" _How many shooters?_ " Her voice dips low, high, no matter what frequency Blake dials her on, she never comes through perfectly clear.

He smacks the radio, "Fucking machine! I don't know how many, I just know I heard guns being fired. There's women here being experimented on, they need - "

A sharp trill rings through Blake's head. He yells, the mouthpiece of the radio slipping out of his hand. He clutches at his head, picking up the receiver again.

_"Sir? Hello?"_

"I'm here! I'm - "

The handle of the door jiggles. Blake drops the radio. Acting quick, he ducks silently into a locker. The locker is a bit slim, but tall enough to fit his height.

Blake watches through the slim slits of the upper locker, viewing the outside. The handle jiggles rapidly, someone _(Or something,_ Blake thinks bitterly,) banging on the door, as if throwing their entire weight into it.

" _Hello? Hello, sir?_ " The woman on the radio repeats, her voice delving more and more into static.

Blake wishes he shut the radio off before he hopped into the locker.

The door crashes open, and in falls a Blackjaw agent. Blake holds his breath. The man's face is red, his clothes ripped. He clutches his arm, kicking the door closed.

The man faces the door. Sharp static rings through Blake's head, causing him to flinch. The man's arms start flailing, yelling devolving into a bloody gurgle as his head and chest separates down the middle. He's pulled apart, blood spurting out, muscle and sinew ripping. The tear goes to the man's gut, the body dropping in a wet, messy pile. It slightly writhes, in the throes of death, then goes limp and still. A dark stain appears under. Blake holds back a horrified groan.

A pair of white eyes appear in front of the locker.

 

 

  
-

 

 

  
The locker door is thrown open, Blake powerless as he's grabbed by the front of his shirt and pulled out. He's forced on his knees, staring up, shaking.

The man's eyes widen, white and milky. He doesn't say anything, just stares down. He's completely naked, covered in blood and pieces of flesh.

Blake waits. He waits and waits and waits for this man to tear him apart like he had the mercenary before.

"C'mon, motherfucker," Black grabs onto the man's wrists, " _Kill me!_ Send me home!" _Let me see my wife and my best friend._

The man sinks to his knees, face - to - face with Blake.

" _Blake_ ," The man says, voice layered. Just like William Hope, " _What are you doing here?"_

Blake's face softens, mouth falling open. He's looking at _Waylon Park_. The man has a little more hair on his jaw and head, slightly marred by blood, but it's Waylon.

"Oh my _God_ ," Blake says in total shock, " _Waylon_?"

" _Almost_ ," the man says, " _It's Billy_."

Dread spikes into Blake's gut, "Where's Miles?"

" _In danger. I need to get to him._ "

"Why are you in Waylon? Wasn't Miles your host?"

Billy pauses. He sighs, eyes welling with black liquid, " _Blackjaw was going to kill him. I had to bond to him to save his life_."

A hundred thousand questions pop into Blake's head, but he doesn't have the time to ask all of them. He sticks to what's most important.

"Is he OK?"

" _He's fine. He's safe now_."

"What about Miles?"

" _Less safe. I need to get to him, or he'll die_ ," Billy blinks away the black tears. He scans Blake, " _You're hurt."_

Billy's hands release Blake's shirt, and grip the sides of his face. His hands are cold, but quickly warm. A hot shudder runs through Blake's body, quick and hot and painful, like he had been struck by electricity. He grunts in pain, shutting his eyes and grabbing Billy's wrists. What feels like glass writhes through his veins.

Then, suddenly, it stops. Blake heaves in air. His ankle doesn't hurt anymore. There's only ghosts of some pulsing feeling Blake could attribute to pain. He opens his eyes, looking at Billy.

 _Whoah. Miles was right_. Not that Blake ever disbelieved him in the first place, but to actually feel it was an entire different experience.

Billy releases him, stands, " _You're fine now. I'm going to find Miles. It's safer if you stick with me_ ," he holds out his hand.

Blake takes it, fixes his glasses, "Sure, yeah, whatever you say."

Billy squeezes his hand. His head tilts slightly, " _Where's Lynn_?"

With a hard swallow, Blake's mouth purses, "Dead," Saying it out loud feels like he's being impaled, over and over again, with a rusty spear.

Billy stands straight, shoulders squaring, " _I'm so sorry_."

He can feel her hands on his shoulders, "She's at peace now. No one can hurt her ever again."

He's met with a hard, hard stare from Billy, as if he were holding something back. Billy lets go of his hand.

" _Stay behind me, and let me take care of everything_."

There's a ring, Blake blinks, and Billy is gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> blake won the poll
> 
> more to come, thanks for reading :)


	48. %

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS FOR: graphic gore and violence

**Waylon's body makes me want to rip myself in two. Though I have saved his life, he is in so much pain, both mental and physical. He almost overshadows my bond with Miles. There's pain, there's hatred, anger, fear.**

**Powerlessness.**

**I've read his memories, siphoned through them. His suffering was so much worse than I realized. I'd only caught glimpses, flashes, in the asylum. I didn't pay more attention. He was just another patient there, nothing more, nothing less.**

**Guilt fills me, like water in the lungs.**

**It was like I was staring down at a dark pit, but the pit is so encased in shadow I cannot see the evil that writhes there. Black snakes encase him, choking him, scales shining, drowning him.**

**But in the center of this ominous writhing, there's him.**

**He shines, tall and golden, clawing his way out of that pit.**

**There's the strong, rigid form of determination in his face.**

**I help Blake to his feet, keep what I know to myself. It would hurt him more if he knew, double his pain. I don't have the time to ask him the questions I want. We have to get to Miles.**

**He bends down to pick up the Blackjaw agent's weapon, a heavy assault rifle. He turns it in his palm, fingers slipping from the wet blood. He doesn't seem like he knows what he's doing.**

**However, he doesn't have to worry about defending himself. I'll take care of that.**

**There's other agents sweeping the floor. One stumbles upon the security office, and I snap him in two, twist him and tear him.**

**Another quickly follows, gun drawn, pointed at the pieces of the agent I killed. I take physical form, thrust Waylon's fist through his chest. He screams, blood filling his helmet, until he falls still on my arm. I drop him, sucking in his flesh. As long as I have a supply of bodies, I'll be fine. It feels like Blackjaw is running straight to me.**

**I guide Blake to a hallway, a few doors away from where they were keeping Miles.**

**I stop. I snarl in anger.**

**They've built another checkpoint. This one was a little better built than the one at the stairwell. That tells me that they were building them around Miles, as quick as they could.**

**Would they have kept him? Would they have kept him comatose, and open him up, see how he ticks?**

**The thought enrages me.**

**" _What's wrong_?" Blake asks. He's strangely calm.**

**" This is a checkpoint. It will suck me from Waylon if I enter it. Miles is on the other side," I pace in front of the doors like a stalking wolf, seeing yellow lights blink on the inside.**

**" _I can try to shut it down_ ," Blake says, " _Hold on."_**

**He steps around me, the doors of the checkpoint opening. I step back some odd feet, keeping as much distance between myself and the doors. What they used was a combination of a high - powered vacuum, and nerve agents that latched onto my nanos, rendering them still, like if I held them physically myself.**

**The nerve agent sprays over Blake as he looks around. He studies the walls, finding a panel, pulls it open. He tugs at wires, the yellow lights turning to red. The nerve agent spits and sprays, dies off with a heavy metallic squeak.**

**Both ends of the checkpoint slide open.**

**Blake looks at me, grins in a strange, soft way.**

**" _Should be fine now_ ," " _Let's go get Miles._ "**

**I blink out of sight, darting quick through the broken checkpoint.**

**" Straight ahead," I say.**

**I can feel Miles close to us. I can feel his heart, being beat for him by the machines. I pass door by door, Blake following quickly behind.**

**I throw open the doors to Miles' room.**

**He's surrounded by men in black kevlar. Seven of them, their backs to Miles' bed in the center, guns pointed out. Defending him? Why?**

**I don't care about the answer.**

**I take out the legs of the one man in the front, bending him backwards, snapping his spine. I grab another by the throat, tearing it from the inside, blood spraying out. Bullets fly into the air.**

**They don't know where I am.**

**Flesh comes apart, black becoming stained red, the floor and medical equipment being splattered with grey matter.**

**It feels good.**

**Vindication turns me into an animal, ripping into the meat of these men. My proverbial jaw opens, and snaps shut, sinking my teeth into their flesh, drinking in their blood. I shiver with adrenaline.**

**This is what they deserve. No longer the strong wolves that come with the armor and the guns. They are a mangy pack of coyotes, and I am the sleek, silver - colored mountain lion, picking off the weakest of their pack, one by one.**

**A bullet hits a machine, something plugged in. It explodes in a flash, an agent raising his hand to shield his helmeted face. I snap his arm, and he lets out a screech of pain.**

**I try to pretend my reasoning is methodical, but it all runs on pure instinct. My violence is a symphony of bones snapping, marrow being sucked dry, their organs failing and rupturing from the inside.**

**I don't stop.**

**I do not stop until everyone lies still in the room.**

**Waylon's lungs move with me, ragged. No inch of the white medical room is untouched by gore. I'm facing Blake.**

**He doesn't blink, " _Where's Miles?"_**

**I turn on my heel. I almost collapse seeing him, using the end railings to prevent Waylon's legs from buckling. Hot tears stream down my face. Miles lays in the bed, naked, covered in blood and gore, unaware of the chaos around him. Wires stick to his arms and head, the black box whirring softly. The machines still pump his lungs and beat his heart, comatose. A horrific fairytale look, without the forest and the glass coffin.**

**But there still is a prince to come save him from his eternal slumber.**

**I grasp one of his pale, limp hands.**

**I swear, I _swear_ , I can feel him squeeze back.**

**Leaning forward, I press my forehead to his.**

**I leave Waylon.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this fic is going crazy.....sure hope nothing bad happens :)


	49. Three's A Crowd

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS FOR: Allusions to past assaults, semi - graphic gore descriptions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I draw a bit!
> 
> Some of the main cast: https://5un5yst.tumblr.com/post/187333993403/some-art-for-my-outlast-fic-waylon-billy-hope
> 
> Billy (ignore i forgot his scars lol) : https://5un5yst.tumblr.com/post/187396891798/billy-from-my-outlast-fic-u-can-read-it-here

Miles inhales, deep, eyes slowly opening. Bright light assaults his vision. He attempts to raise his hand to cover his eyes, but his body is heavy, like he was slogging through a swampy marsh.

He backtracks. _The mall. My dad._

_Jude Rawlings._

_Waylon missing._

His slow breaths pick up. _Where the fuck am I?_ He attempts to sit up, muscles burning and straining. His vision is blurry, and no matter how hard he blinks, the blurs don't leave.

"Easy, Upshur, easy...."

Miles blinks again, "Billy? Fuck, fuck," His voice is hoarse and raspy. He forces himself up, feeling a weight on his chest. He looks down to see a strange black box, "Where the fuck are we? What the fuck is this," He digs his fingers into the box, plastic and glass cracking.

"Wait - "

He rips it from his chest. He yells as pain tears at his pecs, a burning flaring over him. He holds a hand over his skin, applying pressure. His eyes dart around the room, the blurs finally gone. It's covered, floor to ceiling, in body parts and blood. Miles doesn't know how many bodies, _but it was quite a fuckin' few._

Looking down at himself, he's also covered in blood, like someone had broken a body over him. He rubs his hands over his face, feeling smoothness instead of his beard.

"What the fuck happened?" He grabs at the IVs in his arms, pulling them out, yelling in pain as he does.

"We got kidnapped," Billy says, "I'm saving you."

"How long was I out?"

"Two days."

" _Two days?_ " Dread knots in his stomach, "Where's Waylon?"

" _Here_."

He looks over.

Waylon Park looks like Hell on earth. He's covered, head to toe, in blood and grey matter, staining his skin, dying his light hair. His hazel eyes are surrounded by dark, dark circles. He sits on a stool, body curled up into him. It takes a moment for Miles to realize he's completely naked.

"Oh my _God_ , " _What the fuck did they do to him?_ Miles launches himself out of the bed. His body still heavy, he lands awkwardly, slipping in the human remains and blood on the floor.

Waylon swears, diving for him. He catches Miles under his arm.

"I'm gonna kill everyone of these motherfuckers," Miles struggles to stand, "We'll burn this fucking place down," he's hauled to his feet, leaned against the railing of the bed. He keeps his hands on the railings, looking into Waylon's wide eyes, "Fuck, are you OK? Did they hurt you?"

Waylon simply stares. He's shaking.

Frustration, _fear_ , eats Miles alive, "Fucking say something, Waylon!"

Waylon grips his face. He kisses him. His body tremors so hard, crying as he pushes more into Miles, almost leaning him over the bed railings.

"I'm sorry," Miles says between, "I shouldn't have left you there alone. I'm so sorry, Waylon, I'm so sorry," he blinks away tears, grip denting the bed railings.

" _Stop_ ," Waylon whimpers, "Stop, it's my fault we got caught."

"It wasn't - "

" _Just fucking let me say it, Miles_ ," Waylon snaps.

Miles doesn't speak, letting Waylon smooth over his cheeks and jaw.

"I saw Matheson. I thought he was dead, back at the house. I've been...I've been seeing people I know are fucking dead. I thought I was hallucinating him, until he fucking came up and cold - clocked me. Why was he left alive?"

Miles exhales, "I think Billy felt like we cared about him. Like, we talked to him. I don't think he's a bad guy, just does some really shitty things."

"Yeah," Billy agrees in Miles' head, "He was so young....he didn't deserve to die just yet."

"And he thought he was too young to die."

"But not for long. If I see him, he's done for."

"Billy says he's not going to make that mistake twice."

Waylon studies his face, searching for something. Miles opens his mouth to ask, but Waylon kisses him again. Miles notes the sour taste of his mouth.

"I thought you said you weren't together?" A voice asks, light and playful.

Miles' breaks away, head snapping to the side.

_That's...no, no no no._

Standing in the open doorway, clothes spattered with mud and blood, ripped at odd places, like he had crawled out of Hell, was none other the Blake Langermann. He holds a large assault rifle in his hands, like he was Shane Black from _Predator_.

"What the fuck are you doing here, Langermann? You and Lynn should be in Arizona."

Blake offers nothing but a soft smile. Blood is speckled on the lenses of his glasses.

Miles' gut sinks. He pushes from the railing.

"Where's Lynn?" He asks.

Blake's face tightens slightly, lips pursing together.

"Fuck Langermann, _where's Lynn?"_ Dread fills his chest.

"The, uh," Blake looks down, gun falling at his side, "That Jane Doe? Her name was Anna Lee. She came from this town in the mountains called Temple's Gate. Murkoff built these radio towers around, induced the town into some religious fervor," he huffs a soft laugh, "It was chaos. It was _Hell_ ," he rubs his eyes, glasses pushed up. He pinches the bridge of his nose.

"Where is she?" Miles asks, even though he already knows the answer Blake is trying to hard to tiptoe around.

"Dead."

Miles' jaw clenches, the harsh thrum of rage beating through him, like the beat of a drum. _This can't be happening. Lynn? Dead? She's only twenty - eight, she can't be dead,_ "How?"

"Giving birth."

It was a gut punch, "What the fuck do you mean _giving birth_?" Lynn wasn't pregnant the last time Miles had scene her, and she _definitely_ wasn't _that_ far along.

"The radio waves...." Blake shakes his head, shrugs his shoulders, "I don't know. It might've been all in my fucking head but, son of a bitch, Miles, she was _pregnant_. I _watched_ her give birth. She _died_ from it. I passed out, and Murkoff raided the town after."

"How long have you been here?" Waylon asks.

"Close to two weeks. But...." he wavers, "But I'm not really sure. Time kinda blurs together around here. How long since the last time I've seen you?"

Miles barely registers what's happening as his body crosses the room. He barrels into Blake, wrapping his arms tightly around the man in a bear - hug. Hot tears run down his face, gut coiling. Blake is rigid, smells like death and blood.

"I'm fucking _sorry_ , Blake, I'm so _fucking_ sorry," Miles thinks back on what he could've done differently. _Could've told them Arizona was a waste of time, let them pass it off to someone else. Could've convinced them that it's too early in the season, too hot down in AZ, wait another week or two for the temperatures to go down. Fuck, would they would've been safer if I convinced them to run with us? Lynn would've still been fucking alive. Could've, should've, didn't, did._

A month before, he and Blake and Lynn headed out for a night on the town, in a small city between their homes. She wore a nice flannel and jeans, with boots. They went bar - hopping, Blake and Miles slapping the table as Lynn flirted the pants off of some poor young bartender. She was always the loudest of them, the most inquisitive, gripped life by the horns and ran with it. The idea that she really was _gone_.....

Blake's arms raise slowly. He holds Miles soundlessly. _Goddamnit, first his best friend in school, then his wife? How much loss is enough? When will this fucking world decide that people have suffered enough? Put us all out of our fucking misery!_

Blake squirms, "It's alright, Miles, y'know?"

Miles stifles a pained sound.

"She's not truly gone. Maybe in life, she's not here anymore, but she'll always be with me in spirit."

Miles wants to scream.

"She's not in pain anymore. She's somewhere safe now."

Miles hugs him tighter.

"She's OK. She's OK," Blake's voice wavers, "She's...."

His grip tightens slightly.

"She's...."

Miles catches him as he collapses. He eases him down onto his knees.

"She's _gone_ ," Miles says, anger flowing straight into heavy sadness. He wishes he was a cloud of smoke, like Billy was, and could raze the world into an empty plain of nothing. _Lynn is gone_ , he keeps hearing in his mind, _Lynn is gone._

The room is filled with Blake's broken wails.

 

 

  
-

 

 

  
Waylon stands off, wringing his hands. He doesn't exactly understand how, why, _what_ happened, but he knows that it was a whole heap of evil stacked upon more violence. He doesn't feel guilt for what happened to Lynn, the suffering Blake had gone through. He felt anger, frustration. _It's not fair._  

He sits back in the stool to the side, curling his legs back up, as if it would cover his nakedness. His legs pounds with pain. _I shouldn't disturb them_ , he thinks to himself. There's the reflective back of a metal machine, some strange form of a monitor, that he looks into. Through the blood on his body, he can make out a black scorch mark that stretches over the top of his chest, from one shoulder to the other. There's a strange, white glow in the middle, right between his collarbones.

He reaches out, touches his reflection. He doesn't look any different. Other than being covered in blood, his eyes have the same shine to them, his skin still it's normal tan color. He remembers being beaten by the Blackjaw guard, freeing Billy, then nothing.

He doesn't even wonder what happened in between. He glances around the room. _Will I see him? Are we connected now, like him and Miles?_

He doesn't notice Blake's crying has stopped. Miles is in front of him, talking.

"Hey, Waylon," he says. He lays a heavy hand on his shoulder, "C'mon, let's get out of here," his face is grim and tight, eyes slightly red.

 _Keep it to yourself. Just for now. Don't add anything else to this fire_. Waylon rises, hugs him.

"I'm sorry," he says. Nothing he could say could offer any bit of comfort, but he tries.

"Let's just get out of here."

Waylon lets him go, slips a hand into his. Miles squeezes hard, then drops his hand away. Waylon looks at Blake, who's sitting with his back to the doorframe. He hugs the assault rifle to his chest, legs out.

"C'mon, Langermann," Miles says, "Let's get moving."

Blake sniffs, stands. The gun hangs by his side. He wipes his eyes under his glasses.

"I'm sorry, Blake," Waylon says.

He flashes Waylon a tight grin, "Thank you."

"Do you know how to get out of here?" Miles asks.

"No," Blake answers, "But there's a security office on this floor. Should be a map somewhere."

"Good call, let's go," he starts walking, then stops, "Wait, where the fuck are we, anyway?"

 

 

  
-

 

 

  
Waylon's eyes bug out of his head as he sees a man with grey skin and light hair cross the hallway. He stops,  _"Wait._ "

Blake and Miles, who were walking a few feet ahead, stop. Instead of turning, both hunch down, ready to turn on their heels.

"What?" Miles asks in a harsh whisper.

"Down the hall, someone's there."

"Might be a patient," Blake says, "If they are, we should just try and keep going."

"Right. OK," Miles stands straight, "Let me check it out."

He walks forward, peeks around the corner.

"No one."

The three walk forward until they reach another hallway. He peeks around the corner.

"Nobody."

"The office is right ahead," Blake whispers.

"Probably ran off," Miles says, "Nice eye though, Park. None of us know exactly what they were doing here to the people here. Could be just as bad as Mount Massive, maybe worse."

Waylon sticks close, "Is it bad to hope they were just doing experimental drug trials on the people here?"

"After all the shit we've heard and seen so far? That shit would be a _blessing_."

They find the security office. Waylon almost slips in a puddle of blood that had leaked under the door. Miles catches him by the arm. They open the door, Waylon grimacing at the mutilated body on the floor.

"I called for help on the radio, told them people are injured," Blake says, "It went wonky when Waylon showed up."

Waylon's eyes widen, _"I_ was here?" He looks back down at the corpse of the Blackjaw agent.

Blake pauses, "Well, not _you_ \- you. It was Billy."

"Billy took over your _body_ , Park?" Miles looks at him, shocked.

Waylon shrugs, "How do you think we got you out? He needed a host or he'd die, and we needed to get to you as fast as possible."

"Waylon was injured," Billy says through speakers in the ceiling, "There were other agents on the floor. They're dead now, but at the time our joining was unavoidable."

Waylon holds his arms, "I don't know how I feel about having you in my body, Billy."

"It was a last resort. All of your ribs were broken, and you had another concussion - "

 _How many times am I gonna get hit in the head?_ Waylon thinks.

" - And a lung was punctured. I was afraid you would die, and what would happen if I was captured again. It was the only thing I could do."

"Didn't know it was possible to have a second host," Miles says, fidgeting with the control panel and monitors of the security office.

"As long as I exist, a host exists. But Waylon is a special case. He can keep going without me. You can't."

 _Because he died,_ Waylon thinks, a bitter taste forming on his tongue, _Because they killed him, and this place would've killed him too._

"Hey," Blake says, rifling through the lockers, gun laid on the table, "Found some clothes. You guys should put these on," He holds out an armful of fabric. Waylon takes everything Blake hands him, noting that he's looking up and away.

He slips on the heavy security jacket, shirt, boots, socks and pants Blake handed him, trying to push out the memory of him being tied down on that table, Gluskin over him. _Dead, dead, dead, can't hurt you anymore, he's gone, push it out_. His socks are slightly wet from the blood on his feet, but he's otherwise safe. He feels like he can breathe again, secured by layers. Whoever was the previous owner was just his size.

"I thought you like seeing me naked, Langermann?" Miles jokes, not smiling.

"I _do,"_ Blake says, throwing him some articles of clothing, "But I would hate for you to lose your dick. Obviously, Billy can heal your fingers, but the fingers don't grow back."

 _Not funny_ , Waylon thinks.

"Mhm," Miles pulls on the clothes. While Waylon was handed more of a uniform, Miles was in jeans and a shirt and hoodie with sneakers. He fixes his pants, "Waist is fucking _huge_ , there a belt in there?"

"Nope."

"I have one," Waylon says, "Pants fit fine, I don't need it."

He starts to undo his belt, until Miles crosses the room and starts to undo it for him. His head snaps up, glances at Blake, and quickly looks away, face burning.

"Thanks, Park," he says as he hooks the belt through his pant loops. The pants were obviously three sizes too big, even the shirt seemed to billow off of him.

"Don't mention it," Waylon says. Once Miles has stepped away, he looks at Blake, "What about you?"

"I wasn't the naked one," Blake says with a grin, "I'm fine."

Waylon gives him a once - over, seeing his ripped and bloody outfit. He shrugs off his heavy security jacket, "At least wear this, huh?"

Blake takes it gently, "Thank you."

"OK, dress - up is over, let's get the fuck outta here. Didn't see a map anywhere," Miles fixes his outfit.

"Me neither," Blake picks his gun back up, "Should we just try the ground floor and leave through the front?"

"You have a sign that says ' _Kill me, please_ ,' on your forehead?" Miles hooks an arm around Waylon's waist, "Front door is trouble. Let's find a back way."

Waylon leans more to his right, arm around Miles' shoulders, "Back door could be trapped, too...What did you say this place was, Blake?"

"Drug rehab center."

"Even Mount Massive seemed like a regular mental hospital when you walked through the front doors. If we find the main foyer, we could find a map, see if there's other exits marked around."

"Better than walking around and trying to find one," Billy says. Strangely, there's no crackle of static in his voice like usual, instead coming in smooth and clear.

Blake and Miles agree. They step over the corpse of the man gutted in doorway, and leave the security office.

 

 

  
-

 

 

  
The walk down the stairs is uneventful. Some patients were sitting on the steps, in different states of panic. Miles attempted to ask one her name, but she recoiled in fear, and ran off into the upper floors. The other women noticed, and scurried off in separate directions.

"This is why I'm gay," he says with a loud sigh.

Blake laughs, Billy and Waylon simply stare.

"What? It was funny."

"Just get to the foyer," Waylon says with a frown. He held a hand tight to the stairwell railing.

Blake spots a door with FIRST FLOOR on the sign above, "This way."

Miles makes sure to keep close to Waylon. Where his crutch went, Miles had no idea, so to help keep pressure his bad leg off Miles took to keeping to his right side, arm supported around his waist.

"Wait," Billy says through the PA, "Let me check around first," Miles watches as Billy phases through the door. They wait for a few moments, then Billy pokes his head through, "Clear."

Blake pushes open the door. Miles and Waylon quickly follow.

The foyer is white and cream, tiled, and completely empty. Carts are knocked over, papers scattered, chairs thrown about. There's a front entrance with double doors, windows from floor to ceiling. There was heavy furniture piled in front of the doors, a lamp between the handles. Miles notices daylight outside, as well as red and blue flickering lights.

"Cops," he says.

Waylon stops, "Should we clear the way and get out there?"

"No, no," Blake says quickly, "We can't."

"Why?" Waylon asks.

"Could be working with Murkoff," Miles says. Along with Miles' own personal experiences with police, he was well aware of Blake's own mistrust of them. It doesn't take long for a journalist knee deep in crooked - cops and covered - up crimes to start keeping a distant and watchful eye on the police.

"Plus they'll want to talk to us," Blake continues, "Take us in, if they think we're involved. You two are already all over the news. They'll recognize you and we'll be fucked. I have to get to wear I need to go."

"Where are you going?" Waylon leans against the desk.

"I have to get back to Supai."

Miles scowls, "Where that Jane Doe was found? Why?" he searches for her name in his memory. _Anna Lee, it was Anna Lee._

Blake rounds the information desk, sitting down at a chair and turning on a monitor, "I have to go back."

"For what? Lynn?" _Gone for two weeks...._

Miles doesn't want to imagine her body after all that time. He wants to remember her as the woman he last saw back in Nevada, who had her hair up in a ponytail and squeezed Miles tight, told him to come back safe. Not the mother hen, but the bully older sister.

"Well, yes," Blake says, "But I left my camera behind there, along with all my notes."

"Shit, you sure it's not here?" Not that is was difficult for Miles and Waylon to pick up their missing evidence, but the thought of having Blake relive an entire town of horror was something Miles was intent on avoiding if they could.

"No, I'm sure. They've interrogated me all this time, never mentioned a camera at all. Never showed me my notes. I don't think they knew I had it," Miles watches as he opens up Google, searches for directions, "Fuck, we're lucky! This place is just a few miles away from where they found Anna Lee."

"How far from the town?" _What was it? Temple's Gate?_

"From where we were, just another few miles."

"Remember back at the labs in Mount Massive?" Waylon asks.

"Yeah, what about it?"

"There was a garage down there, I guess for backdoor shipments and Blackjaw," his lips quirk, "How much do you wanna bet that there's another here?"

Miles smiles, "God, you're a genius, you know that?"

His smile only grows wider when Waylon looks away, slightly embarrassed.

"I'm printing out the directions now. Soon as that's done, we'll head to the lower labs and get the fuck out of here," a printer whirs, spitting out paper.

"You ever been down there, Langermann?"

"No. It's just labs, I'm pretty sure, nothing like the Mount Massive Incident. At least, I _hope_ so. They never brought patients down there, anyway."

"At least we have that going for us," Miles catches Billy out of the corner of his eye, staring out of the big windows, palms pressed flat on the glass, "What's out there, Billy?"

"Cops, talking to Blackjaw. It looks like it's getting heated," his voice comes through a small radio on the counter.

Blake stands, folding papers and shoving them into his pockets, "Done, let's go."

 

 

  
-

 

 

  
Waylon, quietly, regrets giving Blake the heavy security jacket as they descend the stairwell into the lower labs. With the elevator out of commission, they broke into a locked stairwell. Quick and easy, Miles jerked the handle hard enough it dented, and snapped, the door swinging open. As they went down and down, the temperature seemed to drop with them, the concrete walls delving into ice. Waylon could see his breath in the air, his skin goosebumping as he shivered.

"Cold, Park?" Miles asked.

"No," Waylon insisted.

They reach the bottom, Miles popping open the locked door, "Stay behind me," he says.

"No problem," Blake says, gun cocking.

"Easy, Rambo, do you even know how to work that thing?"

Blake shrugs in response, "Can't be hard."

"The kickback is gonna pop your shoulder out of it's socket."

Blake rolls his eyes. Miles rolls his back in equal annoyance.

_Yup, these two are friends alright._

Miles carefully guides them through the icy hallways. Blake stands behind, and Waylon grasps onto the back of his coat, eyes darting around nervously. The scene was all too familiar, and he kept half - expecting patients and workers from the asylum to pop out of each room.

"You alright, Waylon?" Blake whispers over his shoulder.

"Fine," Waylon replies, seeing long black centipedes crawl from breaks in the ice. A sharp ringing fills his head. _Can't I get a fucking break?_

Miles peeks through each doorway, "Lab. Lab. Lab. Fridge - "

"I broke out of this room," Waylon says through an intercom, "They were really unprepared for me to be a thinking person instead of a mindless animal."

"Lab. Lab. L - Shit, _bingo_."

They stop, Miles hitting a button on the side of a partially - cracked set of double doors. The doors slide open, revealing an open garage, stacked with heavy vehicles, the same kind Waylon had seen Blackjaw drive, complete with the silver magnets on the side. A few are suspended on platform, hoods up, tires off, tools scattered. The garage exit was forty feet tall, thirty feet wide, open, revealing a black tunnel lined with dark rocks, lights built into the sides.

"Nice garage," Miles says with a whistle, "OK, let's find some keys and get out of here."

A shadow, a blur of movement, catches Waylon in the corner of his eye. It peeks out, then ducks behind a van. As Blake moves forward, he tugs Blake back.

"In the corner," Waylon says in a harsh whisper, "By the unmarked van on the right, with the open back doors."

"Stay here," Miles says. He quietly crouches low, approaching the van. Blake stands still, gun at the ready.

Waylon can't fight the tug at his gut. He quickly copies Miles' movements, coming to his side.

"What are you doing?" Miles hisses.

"I'm like you, remember? Another host," Waylon grabs at his collarbone, blood from Billy's time in his body soaking through the fabric, "I'll be fine."

Miles stares, but doesn't object. It fills Waylon with heavy confidence. They approach, side - by - side. Miles breaks off, going around to the front of the van. Waylon peeks into the back, seeing it empty of people. However, sitting open with the contents thrown around, were Miles' and Waylon's duffle bags. _Holy shit, I didn't think they'd leave anything in here!_ He rounds the back doors.

A short figure was standing over a very injured, very bleeding, Jude Rawlings.

Waylon lets out a light gasp. The figure turns. He raises his arms to defend himself, but quickly stops.

He's looking straight at a young girl.

She had long, dark hair, with tan skin. _She doesn't look any older than Winona,_ Waylon thinks. Her dark eyes burn. Waylon _swears_ she looks familiar to him. There's blood on her patient uniform, a pocket knife in her hand. Specifically _, Miles'_ pocket knife, which was also covered in blood, clutched tight in her fist.

Waylon shrinks, puts his hands up, "Hey, hey," he says softly, "It's alright."

The girl steps back, bumping into Rawlings' leg. He groans on the floor. Annoyance thrums harshly as Waylon scowls. _Still alive. Goddamnit_. The girl twists around, seeing Miles come around the front. She growls, head swiveling between the two men. She brandishes the pocket knife, thrusting it into the air, trying to force both men on each side to retreat.

"Hey, Kid, it's alright. We aren't gonna hurt you - "

" _Fuck you_!" The girl yells, "Back up! _Get the fuck back_!"

Miles does so. He puts his hands up, taking a few steps back.

As soon as he does, the girl's body language changes, "Oh, _shit_. You're Miles Upshore."

Miles' eyes dart to Waylon behind her, then back to her, "It's Up _shur_ , but, yeah, that's me."

She still holds the knife up as she turns to look at Waylon, "That make you that Park guy, right?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm Waylon Park."

"Man, you look like Hell, dude."

"I've already been through it," he says with a shrug, eyeing the knife, "Could you....put the knife down? Please?"

The girl does. She closes the knife, holding it out to him.

"No, no," Waylon says, standing, "You can hold onto that."

She tucks the knife into her pocket.

"What's your name?" Waylon asks.

"Charlie. Charlie Gomez."

Waylon's eyes almost bug out of his head, two wires crossing in his mind, "Charlie Gomez? Like, the daughter of Franklin G. Gomez?"

Charlie nods, "That's me."

"Hell, you've been missing for _weeks_!"

"Yeah. Wanna take a guess where I've been?" She crosses her arms.

"Who's Gomez?" Miles asks.

"That's the governor of Arizona. Charlie here is his daughter," he fights to grin, "Merry Hell, what are you doing here?"

"I...." she purses her lips, looking down at her bare, blood - stained feet, "I was buying pot from some guy my friend knew. I went to meet him in this mall parking lot, middle of the day. Turns out, Murkoff was expecting my friend to show up, not me."

"She had drug problems?" Miles asks.

"Yeah. Mostly LSD, shrooms, pot, shit like that. Fuck, I could barely talk to her some days, she was so high. She started dabbling in some of the harder stuff just recently. They caught me and, well, can't just let the Arizona governor's daughter go, can we?"

A voice wheezes from the ground, ".... _Please_...."

The three look down at the still breathing Rawlings.

"What's going on?" Blake asks as he comes rounding.

Miles motions between them, "Charlie, Blake. Blake, Charlie."

"Hi," He says, "We've met before. Kinda."

"Hi. I've watched them beat the fuck out of you before," she says, "You didn't deserve any of that."

"Neither did you," Blake says, "I'm sorry."

"We're all pretty familiar with Jude Rawlings, right?" Waylon clenches his fists, adrenaline pulsing through him. He feels sick just looking at him. _Scum_. _Motherfucker_.

Rawlings' eyes are glassy as he looks up, "Please....please don't kill me."

Waylon grimaces, "Why should we?" He says, close to a snarl. He's almost surprised by the venom in his voice.

"Come on, fellas....you're not monsters, are you?" Rawlings says with a slight gurgle, trying to grin, "You're decent men. Don't let me die, please, please..." his voice trails off, holding his stomach.

"How many times did you stab him, Charlie?" Miles asks.

"Not enough," Charlie says bitterly.

Miles crouches low, "Those stab wounds look pretty nasty, Mr. Rawlings," he says, low and drawn out, "It can take hours for someone to die of a gut wound, did you know?"

Rawlings' white teeth are stained red as he clenches them together, "C'mon, Upshur, you aren't cruel like that."

"To normal people, maybe. But to animals like you...." he tuts, shakes his head, "I don't think you deserve it."

"Maybe a mercy killing would be better," Blake offers, "Put this rabid dog out of his misery."

Miles shrugs, "I don't know. We didn't find him, Charlie here did," he nods to Charlie, "You caught him, Kid. What do you think?"

She stares for a long, long while.

"I think he deserves to bleed out here."

Waylon doesn't bother to fight the smirk on his lips. Miles looks down, his fist connecting with Rawlings' temple. Rawlings falls limp, hands still on his stomach.

Waylon holds a hand to Charlie's shoulder. _Get her away from him._ He can't stop shaking. He steers Charlie away, a few steps clear from the van. He places both hands on her shoulders. She's shaking slightly as well

"We have an errand to run in Supia," he says, "If you wanna come with, we can take you home after."

Her eyes light up, "Would you?"

"Of course we would. You're seventeen, and your family has been looking for you all this time," Waylon used to catch bits of the news while he was still held captive in Mount Massive, from passing rooms with a playing television inside. He could clearly see Franklin Gomez, crying, tearfully begging for any information for his daughter's safe return.

She purses her lips, eyes welling. She embraces Waylon, harshly and quickly, crying into his chest. He holds her. _When was the last time she was shown any care?_ He doesn't want to think about the horrors implemented on the women here, especially the stories Blake was telling them on their way to the security office. He can't imagine what he'd do if I found out that his daughter, one of his sons, was trapped in a place like this. He looks up to see Miles climbing into the back of their van.

"Holy shit, this is our van, Park!" He yells.

"I saw," Waylon says back.

"No offence to the wonderful men who work for Blackjaw, but they sure are a bunch of fuckin' morons - the keys are still in here!"

"Any gas?" Blake asks as he climbs into the back of the van.

The van rumbles to life, "Full tank! Were they gonna reuse this thing?"

Waylon pulls back from the embrace, slightly lowering himself so he's a little more eye - level to Charlie, "Anything you wanna do before we go?"

"No," Charlie replies, with no hesitation, "Get me out of here."

"We've got some spare clothes if you need them."

She looks down, pulls at her shirt, "I don't know. I kinda dig the whole ' _edgy - teen - covered - in - blood_ ' look. Pretty Billie Eilish of me I think."

"What do you kids call it nowadays? It's Gucci?"

Charlie makes a face, " _Don't_ say that."

"Hey, Park, get over here!" Miles calls out.

Walking over to the van, Charlie toddles behind him.

"What?" He leans into the driver's seat.

"There's a camera in here," And sure enough, Miles holds up a small, grey - blue camera.

"That's mine," Charlie says.

She reaches for it, and Miles hands it to her with no resistance. He smirks slightly, "Taking a page from the old _'Got Caught By An Evil, Money - Hungry Corporation: Now What?'_ book?"

"It's _Charlie_ ," she states, "Not _kid_. And it's something like that," she reaches into her pocket, taking out a small, blood - stained spiral notebook and a black pen, "I've been taking notes since I got here. I wanted to document everything, so when I got out I could share my story. I didn't get the camera until the alarms started going off. That was you guys, right?"

"Yup," Waylon confirms. He goes into the back seat, grabbing an old hoodie and a pair of jeans, and some socks.

"Do you mind if I take a look at your notes?" Miles asks.

She pulls the notebook back.

"...Or not. That's fine, too."

Waylon hands her the clothes, "I don't have any shoes, sorry."

She eases the clothes out of his arms, "S'fine. I'm gonna get dressed in that booth over there," she motions to a little booth with shaded windows.

"Go ahead, we aren't leaving without you."

He watches her as she hugs the items tight to her chest, walking to the booth. He turns back around to mention something to Miles.

He's met with a man with hollow eyes and grey skin looking at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WWWWW OK......ok.....wwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww
> 
> im having so much fun writing these past few chapters :) even if my head fucking hurts writing all this dialogue.....if u r a character and u speak i hate you
> 
> i love charlie AAAHHH.....snarky teen power. 
> 
> i dnt have much 2 say - thnx for reading :)


	50. Out

"What's that look for, Park?" Miles leans out the back doors. Blake sits in the driver's seat, adamant about driving to their location himself. _Not that I can blame him._

Waylon's eyes snap back down from their spot on the roof of the van. He shakes his head, "Nothing. I'm just..." he scratches at his arms, "I'm just thinking."

"About what?" he sits, legs crossed.

Waylon exhales, "Before Billy and I got you out of there, Matheson dragged me into a room with you in it, passed out in a tank. They were keeping you comatose."

Miles shifts, listening, "What'd he say?"

"He tried to get me to flip on you. He said he'd let me leave if I gave everything up."

Miles holds a hand out, Waylon hesitating, then taking it. Miles thumbs over the back of his hand, "But you didn't."

"Of course not," Waylon squeezes his hand.

 _That's just like Waylon, Miles thinks, Ride or die for the people he lo....who he's close to_. He pulls Waylon's arm, coaxing him to sit next to him. Their arms bump against each other.

"There's something you need to know."

 _Uh oh. Never a good thing for someone to say._ Miles grins tightly, "What is it?"

"I asked Matheson where your dad was and, uh...." Waylon looks down at their clasped hands, "Did you know your dad was involved, Miles?"

Ice water replaces the hot blood in his body. Whatever he expected Waylon to say was completely overshadowed by what was actually said. He wishes it was anything else. He runs his tongue over his teeth. "No, and I'm not surprised," That's just like him. _Focused on his next fix and nothing fucking else. Whatever they payed him probably ended up back in him. Sorry bastard. Stupid sorry motherfucker._

"I'm sorry."

Miles tuts, shakes his head, "Not your fault, Way," It's a lit cigarette jabbed into his bare skin, "Thanks for telling me. Now I won't waste my time trying to make sure he's alive," he looks down at their clasped hands. He brings them up, kisses Waylon on the knuckles.

"Are you sure?"

"'Course I am. What's the point?" He shrugs, "Never liked me in the first place. I save him from getting tortured and murdered and you think he'd try and drop the act and warn me, right?"

Secretly, Miles was relieved. Even during the ten years between his mom's death and now, with Miles trying to repeat to himself _It's over, it's over_ , he always had this connection to his dad that he never was sure he could break. This was the final nail in the coffin. He needed this. Finally, he was able to let go of everything his dad had done to him. No more late nights, asking himself if his dad was alive or not. No more getting calls from an LA number and answering it, dread slightly creeping into him, wondering if it's a coroner's office.

He kisses Waylon's hand again, "Fuck it. I don't care about him anymore," he looks up, seeing Billy hanging upside - down from the top of the van. He's smiling, his long hair like a curtain off his head. _Is it stupid to get bad news, and still feel so fuckin' free?_

"Are you gonna be OK?" Waylon asks.

Miles doesn't hesitate to answer, "Yeah, I will be."

Waylon pulls their hands down, cups Miles' cheek, kisses him. They both smell like sweaty, bloody death. Miles wouldn't have it any other way.

" _Whoah_!"

Their kiss breaks. Charlie stands a few feet away. She holds a hand out, blocking her view, head turned away.

"Am I interrupting?" She asks.

"Yeah," Miles says.

" _No_!" Waylon says.

Charlie snorts, hand falling away. There's a bulge in her pocket from the camera and notebook. He cheeks are slightly flushed, grin fighting a full - fledged smile, "Sorry, sorry."

"You guys ready?" Blake calls from the driver's seat.

Miles drops his hand away, standing, "All set. Can you navigate for Langermann here, Park?"

"'Course."

"Why Supai?" Charlie asks, "There's nothing out there."

Blake turns from his position in the driver's seat, "You ever hear of a Jane Doe who was found murdered out there?"

Charlie climbs into the van, thinking, "I did. That was a while ago, wasn't it?"

"Me and my wife were investigating her murder. We're reporters by trade, I work the camera, she's the face of the operation. Our helicopter crashed out there. That Jane Doe's name was Anna Lee, and she came from a whole town Murkoff had under it's thumb. I left my camera and my journal out there. I need to get them back."

"So..." Charlie sits in a seat across from Miles, "Where's your wife?"

"She didn't make it."

Charlie glances at Miles. He shakes his head, crossing his arms. Billy materializes in the seat next to her.

"I'm sorry," she says.

"Thank you. Maybe it was better she died out there - "

Miles almost leaps from his seat, " _Hey_ , don't say that," _She didn't deserve to be murdered out there._

"You've been here for two days in a coma, Miles. I've been here for longer," he turns, gripping the steering wheel. His tone is even, even light, carrying no harshness, "I'd rather her be dead than anywhere near this fucking place."

Blake had mentioned little of his time at the facility, other than he was there for an extended amount, and that they were experimenting on the women here, but the little window he placed gave Miles all the information he needed. _I'm an idiot_. Miles leans back into his seat, staring down at his sneakers, an uncomfortable silence falling upon the small group.

The van rumbles to life, Blake pulling into the dark, artificially lit tunnel.

 

 

  
-

 

 

 

  
The bright Arizona sun hits Miles hard, making his head pulse. The paved road of the tunnel merges into dirt, pale lines marking a man - made road. Blake is driving, Waylon giving him directions in the passenger seat. _They make a pretty good team,_ Miles thinks, _two positives outputting more positives. He scratches at his smooth jaw, already feeling a bit of stubble poke through._ He picks off some dried blood. _Could've at least hit a bathroom first before we left._

He looks over, seeing Charlie scribbling down on her notebook. Billy is peeking over her shoulder, reading.

He still can't believe Billy took over Waylon's body. Miles didn't even think Billy had that ability, _Just thought it was a one and done deal_. He looks over to the passengers seat, Waylon's sandy hair clumped with blood. So far, Waylon doesn't walk differently, talk differently, eyes the same, mannerisms the same. It was like nothing changed. _He said he didn't remember anything. Billy in his body is probably not much different from how it is with me. Fuck, he sure acted like it was no big deal. Having his body controlled for him seemed to freak him out, though._

That didn't even scratch the surface of how resilient and determined Waylon was. _Christ, the guy was ready to face Hell for us_. Miles can't describe the feeling, knowing Waylon came to rescue him. _If Waylon was smart, he would've either sat tight and waited for someone to come, or got out of dodge as soon as he could. I was worth it enough to him to stay and try and find me._

He wishes he were driving in the front seat, just to hold Waylon's hand.

Charlie holds her camera and notebook close to her, almost possessively, Waylon's shirt and pants baggy on her. Miles leans back into the wall - mounted seats, "How you doing, Charlie?"

She shrugs, flipping through her notebook, "Fine," her answer is short and curt, telltale signs of a bad mood. She quickly scribbles something down. She stops, picks her head up, "Can I ask you some questions?"

He shrugs, "Can I ask _you_ some questions?"

"Yeah," she looks back down at her notebook.

"You mind if I start?"

She shakes her head, "No. Go ahead."

Miles picks his words carefully, "How did you get into the labs? The door was locked, and the elevator was down."

"I stole a guy's key. He wasn't paying attention, swiped it right off his belt. It was completely empty down there. I was actually in here, looking for a weapon or something, and then Jude came up with the keys."

"So you jumped him?" _Kid's got balls, for fucking sure. Braver than everyone in this van, probably._

"Yeah," she keeps writing, "He deserved it."

"That's for sure."

She looks up, "My turn."

"Of course," Miles leans back, "What do you want to know?"

"How did you get to the center? It's a _women's_ rehab facility," she crosses her legs, scribbling words down.

"We got kidnapped. We were trying to rescue my dad. They knocked us out, picked us up. We were only there for two days. That was in LA, this is Arizona. It was probably just the closest facility they could find."

Billy picks his head up, "She's interviewing you, Upshur. Writing down everything you say."

"Where's your dad now?"

"Who knows, who cares. He turned us in. The kidnapping thing was just bait," he stares at the notebook in her hand, "You take a journalism class in school?"

Charlie picks her head up, "I do...did."

" _Do_. Once we get Blake's things, you're going home, don't forget."

She smiles tightly, moving her long hair out of her face.

"So," he waves his hands, "Daughter of a governor, huh?"

"Yup, that's m - " she scowls, " _Hey_. You're deflecting."

"I don't deflect," he crosses his arms, purposely not making eye contact with her, "No idea what you're talking about."

Charlie eyes him, looking back at her notes to scribble something down.

"She wrote down _Jerk_ , underlined three times," Billy slides down onto the floor, leaning his head and arms onto the seat.

The next hour is filled with back and forth between Charlie and Miles. Charlie is seventeen, lives in Phoenix, wants to be a reporter when she's older, and wants a wife with a big ranch house and thirteen dogs (no children.)

"Good luck with the ranch house," Miles snorts, "Journalism isn't the most lucrative business out there. You want to work somewhere, or freelance?"

"Freelance, set my own hours."

" _Woof_. Tough lifestyle," he leans forward, "But it's fuckin' rewarding to Hell, let me tell you. You being the Arizona governor's daughter will open a lot of doors for you."

"That's what my dad always says," she stops writing, "How far are we from Phoenix?"

Waylon turns in his seat, "Almost six hours from where we are now. According to these directions, we just crossed into Supai."

Miles looks out the window. He's been to Arizona a few times in his life, following stories. However, those times were in populated areas. He's unprepared for the rocky, red sand and dirt, stretching on and on into the horizon, framed by high rock formations and dry greenery that's bleached pale by the sun. The sky is a pale blue, starkly contrasting but beautifully melding with the earth below it. _Feels like this has been 50% of our journey - half city, half nothing_. _At least it's nice to look at._ In the far, far distance, Miles can see smoke rising from behind a large, pale mountain.

"See that?" Blake points, "That's where the town is. Hidden away. The world has no idea what - "

" _Stop_!" Waylon yells out.

The van jerks right. It spins, doing a one - eighty in the dirt, a cloud of dust flying up. Charlie flies from her seat, yelling. Miles catches her, shoving her into a seat, arm over her chest to keep her pinned down. She clutches his arm, eyes shut tight. The van leans onto one wheel, groaning, before it slams down onto it's other tires.

No one moves, Miles only hearing his own heart hammering and his ears ringing. Billy explodes into smoke, filtering out the back doors. He moves his arm from Charlie's chest.

"Stay here."

"Oh, I'm not fucking going _anywhere_!"

Miles bursts out the back doors. He stops, freezes. _What the...._ He barely recognizes the person in front of him, mud and blood so caked onto her body, encasing her like webbing.

Blake and Waylon leave the front seats, "What was _that_?" Blake yells.

"I - I.... _fuck_ ," Waylon breathes, "It - it was a _person_ \- "

"Holy Mary, the van could've _flipped_!" Blake throws the back doors open, "Charlie? Mother _fucker_ , are you O - "

Miles feels like he's going to collapse, "Blake," Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Waylon limp to his side.

"Holy shit," Waylon says quietly, eyes fixed forward, "Oh my God. Ma'am, are you OK?"

" _Blake_ ," Miles says more urgently. _What the fuck. What the fu - ck_. He can't move. _How did he not know? How?_ Behind, Miles hears Blake sharply breathe in.

"Lynn?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah........i dont have anything to say. im going crazy trying to write all this dialogue
> 
> thnx for reading :)


	51. I'm So Sorry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS FOR: miscarriages, pregnancy, mentions of previous sexual assault, uncomfortable imagery related to medical terminology

Miles, for the second time since he's met Lynn, is afraid to approach her. She's caked, head to toe in mud, blood smeared over her, dark and crusted, blending into the mud. Sweat had left slight trails, revealing skin that's yellow from what Miles thinks is bruising. She looks thinner, hair slicked back, mud hardened in a way that almost makes it look like a helmet. Her eyes are wide, red, not glazed over, but shining. With what, Miles isn't sure he knows, but something is _definitely_ off about her. She's deathly still, not moving. Her hands flex around a large, rectangular object, also covered in hardened mud.

"Lynn?" Blake steps around Miles, voice tipping into a horrified tone, " _Lynn?_ "

The next step he takes causes her to throw the object in her hand down with a growl, hoarse and gutteral.

"Lynn? Lynn, can't you see me?" He strips his jacket off, holding it in one hand, "Me, Lynn, it's me."

She points to him, hand black with dirt, " _You_ ," she hisses out, voice scratchy with what Miles thinks could be disuse, " _You._ Left me."

Miles leans into Waylon, whispering to him, trying to keep his own nerves from bubbling over, "Van, Park, get in the van."

Waylon swallows hard, limping quickly back to the van.

Blake falls to his knees, "I thought you were dead, baby, I didn't know, I didn't - "

Lynn clenches her fists, yells, pushes at Blake's shoulders, knocking him back. Attempting to fight the shock and confusion taking him over, Miles slides to Blake's side, trying to get to him. _Jesus Christ, what is she doing?_ Lynn pushes Miles back, who falls straight on his ass. She pounces onto Blake. She grips the front of his shirt, pulling.

" _You. Left. Me,_ " rage is all too clear in her snarl, " _You left me there_."

" _Baby_ ," Blake whimpers, not even attempting to raise his arms to protect himself, "No, no, please, I didn't leave you, _please_ \- "

She pulls him up by his shirt, slamming him back down, "You left me! I woke up alone!"

Blake sobs under her, "I thought you _died_ , I thought the birth killed y - "

"Shut up! _Shut up!"_ She picks him up, slams him down, over and over again, Blake's glasses flying off, "I'm _sick_ of everyone _fucking_ talking!"

Miles doesn't know what to do. _She was out here for a while. Starvation, dehydration, plus whatever trauma she went through - What did they do to her?_ He rises, grabs onto her wrists, trying to stop her, "Linnie - "

One of Lynn's arm rips away. _Swack_ , the back of her hand connects with his cheek. His eyes blur, ears ring, the force of her hand leaving his skin stinging.

He's back, at age eleven. Back in LA, in the apartment the size of a shoebox. His mother is screaming at him, the windows shaking with her words. Bottles cover every surface, spare pipes and old cigarette butts littered between. Miles touches his cheek, flinching, mouth slightly open. Hot, burning tears fall from his eyes. He looks back up.

His mother is gone. The apartment is gone. All that's left is him, and the desert, and Lynn's hands around Blake's neck.

 

 

  
-

 

 

  
" _Jesus Christ, Billy, do something_!" Waylon screams. He's watching the shocking display with wide and frightened eyes, every muscle in him screaming for him to _run_. Billy stands over them, watching, tight and focused.

As soon as he hears Waylon speak, his open hand darts out, grabs Lynn by the back of her mud - encrusted head. She stops all movement. Her eyes roll in the back of her head, grip slipping off of Blake. She falls forward, limp, on top of him. Blake gasps for air, grabbing at his own throat. Behind, Charlie grabs at Waylon's shirt.

"That's Blake's wife? What's _wrong_ with her?" She whimpers. Waylon shields her, trying to take up as much space as he can to block her view.

"I don't know," he says, "I don't know, I don't know," This was the complete opposite of the woman he had spoken to before. There was no curiosity, no understanding, no knowing smile. There was rage, animalistic in it's entirety, teeth bared like a wild dog, "Please stay in the front seat, please, don't come out, OK? Stay in here."

Charlie releases her grip on him, rushing to jump into the front seat.

Waylon grabs onto Blake's shirt, at his shoulders, pulling him out from under Lynn. It's not as difficult as he thought, Blake slipping out easily. Blake doesn't rise from the ground, hands still hovering over his throat, heaving. Waylon grabs his glasses, hands shaking as he puts them back on him. He goes to Miles, who kneels frozen. Waylon shakes his shoulders.

" _Miles_!"

He doesn't look up, "She hit me," his tone is low, like he can't believe it.

"I know! I saw!" He hooks a hand under Miles' arm, hauling him up. _Merry Hell, did he always weigh so much?_ "Let's get her into the van."

He carefully side - steps away from Lynn's unconscious form, picking up the object she threw to the ground. It's a decent - sized video camera, something Waylon would see on the shoulders of a news crew, covered in debris and mud. At the top, on a handle, there's a small rectangle tethered to it. Waylon scratches off debris, recognizing it as a small, leather - bound journal. _Was Blake running around with this thing the whole time, taking notes and video like me and Miles were?_

He looks behind. Miles is kneeling over Lynn, Billy behind him. Dark smoke floats around, encasing them in a sheer filter. Miles grabs Lynn's one shoulder, turning her onto her back.

Underneath a filthy, filthy dress indistinguishable from it's original color, she sports a swollen belly.

Waylon almost drops the camera in his hand, " _Jesus_ , get up, we need to get her to a hospital!" She definitely didn't have that back in Nevada.

Miles' shock flips into anger, "How the _fuck_ are we supposed to explain this to a fucking hospital?"

"Do you have a better idea?"

Blake has risen into a crouching position, "I - I don't understand. She already gave birth, I don't...this doesn't make sense!"

Miles smooths his hands over his face, "The machines they were using in Mount Massive caused false pregnancies and miscarriages to the women who used to work there. Same shit."

"I know it was fake, why does she still _look_ pregnant?"

"Because she is."

All three of their heads snap up, Miles and Waylon to where Billy stood. He stands still, like a statue of stone, hands tight fists over the scars on his midsection, eyes unmoving from Lynn. His voice comes from the radio.

"What do you mean?" Blake's voice is so quiet, so small. He cradles Lynn's head in his lap.

"Back at your apartment, I could feel it," Though Billy is close, he feels so far away, detached, "Something else within her. No heartbeat, but it was there, growing, forming. It was around a month, no features."

Blake sobs, "Oh, _God_ ," he looks down at her, cradling her face, whispering to her, " _Why didn't you tell me?_ "

Waylon holds the camera tight to his chest. _Maybe Lynn_ was _pregnant, but...but this far along? It's impossible_. She's ready to pop, and Waylon knows, because he's already helped deliver two of his own. He dreads the thought of it coming to three by the end of the day.

"So what you're saying is," Miles voice starts out soft, raises to a shout, "She really _was_ pregnant?"

Billy flinches, "I didn't want to say. She wasn't far along. I didn't think - "

"You didn't think it was important to say she was pregnant? That could've kept her in Nevada! _They would've never come here!"_ Miles stands, vein in his neck bulging.

"That doesn't make sense," Blake says loudly, "We've always been careful."

"Shit fails, doesn't it? Condoms, birth control, all of it. It can fail, break, whatever," Miles, "But who fucking cares how? Look at her! Who knows what the shit Murkoff has could to to a _real_ fetus!"

"Miles is right. It's different now."

Waylon limps towards Billy, looking down at him, "What's different about it?"

Billy sharply inhales, still staring at Lynn, "Whatever Murkoff used here must've quadrupled the growth of the....fetus. It's fully developed, but..."

"But _what_?" Blake rasps out.

"It's empty. It's a shell. No moving organs, nothing formed correctly. The cells inside are moving around, building where they can, but not where it's right," he keeps his head down, "Not with what a person needs."

Blake stands, hands braced under Lynn's arms, "Let's get her into the van."

Miles stands to help him.

"I've got it!" Blake yells out. Miles stands, hands up, taking a step back.

They all watch as Blake struggles to lift Lynn off the ground. Soon, Miles ignores the shouts Blake throws him, picking up Lynn easily and placing her carefully into the back.

Waylon looks back Billy, steps to block him from Miles' view, "Why didn't you say something?"

"I didn't think it would make a difference in whether they left or not. It was so small, so early. They're reporters, not boxers," he looks up, hollow eyes welling with white, "I didn't know they would end up here."

Waylon lifts a hand, braces it on Billy's shoulder. He didn't expect him to be so cold, a reprieve from the hot Arizona sun.

"It's gonna be alright," Waylon says, "Just get back in the van. We're gonna get Lynn to a hospital. It'll be fine," He keeps repeating it, _It'll be fine,_ but it's _not_ fine, not in the slightest. He's scared to fucking death of Lynn waking up during the drive and attacking Blake again, "How long will she be out?"

"I don't know, an hour or two, maybe, but \- "

"Park!" Miles yells, "Let's fucking go!"

The two exchange a stare, and Billy explodes into dust, Waylon's hand making trails at it falls through the cloud.

 

 

  
-

 

 

 

Waylon elects to drive, even though Miles fights him loudly about it. He relents though, eventually, and Waylon takes the driver's seat. It's endless desert upon desert as Waylon drives, quietly counting the large cacti they pass. _Never thought I'd come back to Arizona like this_. Charlie writes rapidly in her notebook in the passenger's side, legs curled against her chest.

"Seatbelts," Waylon says, tone light.

Charlie ignores him, "Who's Billy?"

He glances into the back through the rearview mirror. They'd taken one of the duffles, stuffed it and place it under Lynn's head. Blake is crouched over her, hands clasped around one of her limp hands, holding it to his face. His lips moves, and Waylon thinks it in prayer. Miles is seated. He glances into the mirror. His eyes are empty, a red mark appearing where Lynn had backhanded him. He shakes his head, looking back down.

"Back at the facility," Charlie says quietly, "They had this communal room. We'd sit in there, for however long we wanted, until we needed to sleep, or to take our meds and talk to the doctors there. I used to watch the news a lot, that's how I know about you. A worker there let me read some of the papers you posted, printed 'em out for me because I was nice and didn't bite him when they made me take meds. He even let me watch some of the videos."

"You shouldn't have been watching all that," Waylon says. _Too young to be seeing things like that, knowing that happens to people. Then again, she already knows how evil the world can be off first hand._

"You guys were talking to nothing, the radio had a guy _inside_ it. You called him Billy, like that guy who held that nanotech shit. Was that him? Like, did you give the Swarm a name?"

Waylon straightens, fingers flexing on the wheel.

"It is, isn't it?" She pauses, "Is it going to kill us?"

" _No_ ," Waylon says quickly, "He'd never do that. How do you think we survived this long? Or got out of that prison? Have you seen my leg?"

She shakes her head, "No."

"Well, back at the asylum, I broke it. Billy fixed it, healed concussions, saved my ass a hundred times over. He's been protecting us all this time."

Charlie thinks, then puts her notebook down. She grabs her camera, turning it on. She flips a few buttons.

"Where'd you grab that?" Waylon asks.

"I was in therapy when they brought you guys in. They made a big fuss about it, mentioning your names, the Walrider. Doc turned his back, _boom_ , didn't even notice it was gone," she raises it, turning in her seat, "If I remember correctly, the Swarm showed up with the night vision...."

She stops, camera pointed directly at Billy, who's sitting with his back to the closed back doors. Waylon cranes his neck a bit, seeing a black, smoky figure on the screen of her camera.

"Whoah," she says quietly. She waves, and Billy waves back, " _Whoah_."

Waylon glances at Miles, who's face is creased deep with an anger Waylon knows is only barely contained.

" _Kid_ ," Miles says harshly, "Later. We get to a fucking hospital, you can ask all the questions, and take all the video you want."

"I just turned the filter on," Charlie says, defensive, "I wasn't taking a video."

"Doesn't matter. Put it away."

She does with another word, turning back in her seat. She grabs her notebook, jotting something down, before she closes it. Waylon reaches over, holds a hand to her shoulder, looking at her.

"This has been a rough couple of days," He says quietly, "Don't be angry with him, he's not always like this."

"It's been a rough couple of days for all of us," she replies.

Waylon places his hands back on the wheel, staring at the emptiness ahead. A little while later, the yellow dirt had melded onto pavement. Waylon exhales. _Civilization at last._

"OK, we need a hospital," Waylon doesn't recognize any of the passing highway signs. _Merry Hell._

Charlie sits up, "Oh, hey, yeah, I've driven around here before," she points, "Stick to this lane."

Waylon follows Charlie's directions carefully for forty minutes until the road traffic thickens, and large buildings pass by. He tries to keep his eyes on the road as he scans around, "Hospital...hospital...hospital..."

Charlie pops him in the arm, "Yeah! Left here."

They turn left, and a large, white building with shining green windows come into view, reading BIDDSTONE HOSPITAL. Just as they pull in, Lynn wakes, screeching. Her screaming digs into Waylon's head like a knife, and he swerves to avoid barrelling into a turning minivan. He glances into the rearview mirror, seeing Miles on one side, Blake on the other, holding her down by her arms. She thrashes, arching off the floor, kicking out. Her eyes are as wide as saucers, snapping into the air, teeth clenching.

Billy stands over her, "She's trying to push it out."

" _Je - sus_ Christ, pull over!" Miles yells.

"I'm trying!" Waylon stomps on the gas, avoiding parked cars until he stops at the front doors of the hospital.

Charlie jumps out, yelling, " _Hey_! There's a lady giving _birth_ in here!"

It doesn't take long for a small group of medical attendants to show up with a stretcher. They throw open the back doors.

"Sir," one medic says, "We need you to let her go."

"You have something to sedate her?" Miles yells over her screaming.

One medic disappears, then reappears with a large syringe. They definitely didn't have to pull that out with Ben and Ricky. The other two medics hop into the van. Miles retreats slightly to let one take his place, but Blake refuses to move for the other.

"Blake, just let them do it!" Waylon yells, completely turned around in his seat.

Blake hesitates, then retreats. The two attendants hold down her arms as she screams bloody murder at them, the third coming in to administer the sedative. It touches her skin, and within a few seconds, she falls limp. Blake whimpers out loud, Waylon reaching over to lay a hand on his shoulder. He squeezes hard, and Blake grabs his hand as medics bring in the stretcher, carefully laying her down and jumping out of the van, yelling codes at each other. Blake rips from Waylon's grip, following them. Miles shares one worried stare with Waylon, before he jumps out, too, following.

Charlie opens the passenger side, "Front desk says we gotta park somewhere else."

Waylon rolls his eyes, exasperated, " _Unbelievable_!"

 

 

  
-

 

 

  
"Everyone in this hospital is staring at you, Upshur," Billy says.

 _No shit,_ Miles wants to say. Every nurse and doctor that passed him so far asked if he needed help, some with wide eyes that recognized him as soon as they got close. He can only imagine how he looks to other people, covered in blood with missing fingers and a shaved head _. I must look like a real psycho._

The medics passed Lynn through a set of double doors just thirty minutes ago, the two being told she needed to be stabilized, and they were unable to follow. Blake sat, shaking, next to Miles, muttering to himself. Miles kept one hand on Blake's bouncing knee, reminding him that he isn't alone.

"I hate hospitals," Billy says.

"Me too," Miles mutters under his breath, throwing a particularly hard look at a passing doctor who was staring a little too intently. He shifts, trying to keep his grip gentle and his temper under control. _It's no good if I make a scene._

Just as Miles has the thought ' _Where the Hell is Park?_ ', Waylon comes bursting through the doors, Charlie tailing behind.

"You will _not_ believe what they - " he stops, "Sorry, what's happening?"

 _Took you long enough_ , "They're checking her out now."

Waylon's face twists "Why isn't Blake with her?"

Blake shakes his head, "I can't be there while they - " he curses, "The _fuck_ I can't be in there - "

He stands. Miles catches him by the wrist. Blake tugs, then sighs and sits back down. Charlie sits down next to him.

"What are they doing?" she asks.

"I don't know," Blake says, "None have them have come out yet," he puts his head in his hands, "Jesus, why didn't she tell me?"

"You think she wouldn't have mentioned it?" Having secrets wasn't something Lynn had a habit of doing. Miles couldn't imagine her keeping a secret that big from her husband, "She probably didn't even know. Lot's of people don't find out they're pregnant until a couple months in. Happens all the time," Miles wracks his brain for answers, quickly finding that, after all the shit he's gone through, logic and reason has no place in the world anymore. Besides, he's not Lynn. He's not in her head. He can't give Blake an answer he doesn't know.

They wait for what feels like an eternity, until the double doors Lynn was pushed through open up, a woman in a long white coat coming through, one of the doctors who rushed to Lynn's side. She had short dark hair and dark skin, on the taller side as she rolled her sleeves up, a folder tucked under one arm.

Blake stands, "How is she?"

The doctor's face is emotionless, thick eyebrows creased together. On her coat, a nametag read Silva. She jerks her head towards a door on the left, "We should speak in private."

Miles' bristles, can feel Blake tense physically. _That's not fucking good._

"All of you," she says.

The group share glances. Without any other option, they follow her into the room. It's large, with big windows, dressed in calming greys. From the degrees and photos framed on the walls, Miles understands that this must be Silva's office.

"Sit," Silva says, motioning to a few chairs. Blake sits immediately, Waylon slowly sitting next to him. Miles stands behind Blake, holding his hands on the man's shoulders. Out of the corner of his eye, Charlie approaches a water cooler and pours herself a little paper cup. Silva opens up her folder, taking out a legal pad and a pen, "I would like to know the relationship between you four and the woman you brought in," she says.

 _Standard_ , Miles thinks, _Wants to know who we are_. Not that it's any less infuriating.

"I'm Blake Langermann," Blake says, "Lynn Langermann is who we brought in," Silva writes as he speaks, "This is - "

"I know who these two are," Silva says, not looking up from her writing, "Waylon Park and Miles Upshur. Two of the most wanted men in America, if not the world," she puts her pen down, folds her hands, looks up, "And before you ask, I have no interest in turning any of you in, I've already made my staff aware of that. They are not to call the police, or alert any other authorities. I'm very, very concerned with Lynn right now. Whatever business you have elsewhere, has no merit here," she looks to Charlie, "And who are you, miss?"

"Charlie," she says, sipping her water.

Silva nods her head, waiting for more. When none comes, she leans back into her seat, "Let me say that this is a very, very dire situation. Are you her husband, Mr. Langermann?"

Blake nods, "That's me," Miles' glances down to see him play with his wedding ring, "How is she?"

The quiet look Silva throws him is all Miles needs to know that it's worse than any of them could have feared. He breathes, shaky, gripping onto the chair as to not hurt Blake.

"I need to know exactly what happened to your wife."

Blake lays out every gruesome, horrible detail of Temple's Gate, no matter how disturbing. Miles drinks it in, almost drowning in it. What he had witnessed and gone through in Mount Massive was _nothing_ compared to what the Langermanns experienced. Anger swells into guilt. _If only I knew._

Silva, strangely calm, listens with intent. When Blake finishes his tearful tale, she leans back into her seat, "I believe you, whole heartedly. I'm sorry," she says simply, voice honest and low.

"I don't want your _sorries_ ," Blake says, "I need to know what's wrong with my wife."

Flipping through her file, Silva separates her papers. Billy materializes behind her, reading her papers as she speaks out loud, "She was heavily dehydrated and starving, we have a feeding tube and an IV drip in her now. There's abrasions, broken ribs, bruising throughout. Her right eye socket is broken. We did a full examination, rape kit - "

His breath hitches, grabbing at the sides of the chair. Miles rubs at his shoulders, feeling a tug at his gut.

" - And an ultrasound," she pauses, looks up, "The fetus is nine months and a week old, yet it progressed over a series of days. I'm very sorry, Mr. Langermann."

Blake starts shaking. Miles can barely keep himself under control, "Is she _dead_?" It comes out like a knife.

"No. Her situation, however, is not good."

"Just fucking spit it out," Miles can't control the growl that comes out.

Silva nods, staring straight at Blake, "Usually, the fetus is connected to the mother by the umbilical cord, floating in the womb. This, however, is less a fetus, more a tumor. Whatever was affecting you back out in that town caused the fetus to fester. It's attached to the inner walls of her body, grafted itself into her organs, her stomach and liver being the most seriously affected," Silva swallows, eyes casting down, back up, "There's no way to remove it without killing her."

It felt like a bomb was dropped in that office. Miles wants to scream, throw the furniture, tear himself limb from limb. Blake lets out a cry that shakes Miles right to his soul. Billy is still behind Silva, staring down with a blank expression.

"So she's pregnant for, what, forever?" Waylon asks. He's shifting uncomfortably in his seat, completely silent until this point.

Silva shakes her head sadly, "I wish it were that simple. When she was brought in, she was in labor, her body trying to push the fetus out of the birth canal. However, because of the fetus being attached to her, her body simply over - clocked itself, and she passed out. It's a cycle. The body is ready for the baby to be born, despite there being no actual child, and the body attempts to give birth, but it ends up resetting itself as soon as Lynn loses consciousness. If this continues, the stress and pain of the false birthing process will cause her surviving organs to rupture."

Miles slips away, his back towards everyone. He approaches a table stationed in the back of the room. Unable to control himself, he sweeps his arm across the table, knocking every object off with a thundering _crash_. He lifts one fist, slamming it down on the surface. _Crack_ , the table splits in two. He can't stop the ringing in his ears, the harsh thrum of rage. What Lynn is going through now is worse than the false - death Blake described before.

He feels so small, so helpless. Nothing he can do can help her now. Hands push at his shoulder blades, Waylon's voice coming through the static. There's no way Miles can make out the words, but his arm is taken, and he's led to Waylon's seat, being forced into the chair. He doesn't want to sit, he wants to go out and tear the world apart piece by piece. Still, he doesn't fight.

"There has to be something you can do," Miles hears Blake say through the haze in his head, "I already thought I lost her once, there has to be _something_."

Silva's face is stoic, but the wetness of her eyes betray her, "I'm sorry, Mr. Langermann."

 

 

  
-

 

 

  
Four hours later, Lynn awakens, and Silva lets them see her. Miles, as politely as he can, asks Charlie and Waylon to wait outside. Silva escorts them into Lynn's room, waiting outside the room as they enter. Miles' skin itches when he enters the hospital room. It's all white, curtains to the room closed. Lynn is laying down, a bedsheet over her stomach, hospital gown white with little blue dots. Seeing her breaks his heart, makes his eyes sting, and his stomach flip itself. They've scrubbed all the dirt and blood from her, skin deathly pale, yellow in odd spots. Her right eye is bruised. They've taken the feeding tube out, replaced it with an oxygen mask. She looks skinnier, her hair choppy. Machines were hooked up to her, beeping and whirring with her heart and working organs.

_Lynn wouldn't want to be seen like this._

He hears Blake whimper, realizing that he had said it out loud. The sight of Blake so despaired, so hopeless, keeps Miles from breaking down in front of him. They're standing over her. Blake brushes a stray hair out of her face.

"Hi, baby," he says, "Can you hear us?"

Miles swallows, "Hey Linnie," _Fuck my life._

Lynn's eyes move behind their lids, opening slowly. Miles' holds his breath, seeing how colorless her eyes are. Her head turns, and as soon as she sees the two, she bursts into tears.

"Don't cry," Blake says through his own tears, "Baby, please, don't cry."

"I could have _killed_ you," she sobs, "I almost did," she attempts to sit up, yelping in pain as she does.

"Easy," Miles says, "Try not to move so much."

Lynn ignores him, sitting fully up. She grabs Blake, brings him in close in a half - hug. She's shaking just as hard as he is. She still has her wedding ring on, a small chunk missing from the band. She reaches on hand out, grabs Miles by his shirt, brings him in too. It's awkward, Blake and Miles brushing uncomfortably together, but Miles doesn't have the balls to fight against it. Lynn's skin is cold.

"I'm sorry," she says. She kisses the side of Miles' head, Blake's head, "I'm sorry."

"What's there to be sorry for?" Blake asks, "You didn't do anything."

Miles holds back a sob, "None of this is your fault, Lynn, none of it."

She lets them go, holding them at half an arms length. Lynn rubs over Miles' shaved head, "What happened to your hair?" She grins slightly.

Miles wishes God would strike him down where he stood, "I lost it," _Who gives a hot fuck_? He holds Lynn's hand, squeezing it, "We thought you were dead."

She huffs a laugh, empty, "I did too. I wish I was."

"Don't say that," Blake says rigidly, "You're gonna be fine."

Like a piece of rusted metal, Blake's words stab through Miles, twist in the wound. He fights the urge to shake him around, call him delusional. Lynn takes her hand away, threading through her stringy and choppy hair.

"I already know I'm dying, Blake."

Miles can't think of a worse thing to say. He wishes he were someplace else, _anyplace_ else. Blake collapses onto his knees, gripping Lynn's other hand.

"No, don't say that. They'll help you here. It'll all be fine, and we'll - "

In a split second, Lynn's face twists in anger. She rips her hand away, " _Stop._ "

And Blake does.

She snaps weakly in front of him, "Wake up, Blake. We're not in Temple's Gate anymore."

" _Exactly_ ," There's just the slightest of tired grins on his face, "We're in a hospital, and the doctors here are - "

"Blake."

"God wouldn't have brought us back together if we - "

" _Blake_ ," Lynn's voice comes out harsh, loud. When Blake falls quiet, her face twists with sorrow. She runs a hand through his hair, fixing his glasses, "God likes to play his fucking games with our lives, baby. I wasn't supposed to make it out of that valley."

He shakes his head, " _No._ "

"Yes," she pauses, "Did you bring the camera?"

"What does that have to do - "

"Do you _have_ it?"

"We do," Miles says.

She looks to him, waving a hand, "Come here, Miles."

A memory surfaces in Miles' head. When he was twelve, his grandmother passed away, complications of the heart. She had looked already dead in her hospital bed, skinny and pale. She motioned him over. _Come here, son._ He approaches Lynn the same way, slowly with his hands tangled in the stomach of his shirt. Lynn looks down at Blake, grabbing his sleeve, pulling him up so he stands. She holds them both by their shoulders, in a small huddle.

"I want you two to make sure that footage gets out."

Blake exhales shaky, "Yeah, yeah, already planned on it."

"I want them _all_ to fucking pay. I need this country to see what the fuck those monsters are doing, and put a bullet in each and every one of their fucking heads."

Miles simply nods, "We're already half - way there, Linnie," _Jesus, she's saying her last goodbyes, and she's not even fucking dead yet._ He sniffs, a silent tear falling.

"Where's that boy? Hope? Is he here?"

Miles looks off, seeing Billy standing on the opposite side of her bed.

"I'm here," he says quietly, voice coming through the speakers, "I'm so sorry. I knew you were pregnant, but I didn't say anything," his lip wobbles, "I'm so sorry."

Lynn looks to the ceiling, "How did you know? Fuck, who cares anymore, I really don't. But do me a favor?"

"Anything."

"Put me out of my misery."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: reading maps gives me a headache, so the hopsital described is completely fictional, as is the city they are in
> 
> bro ok......ths chapter was hard for me 2 write bc the subjects r a bit triggering for me but like. i wrote it out and now the hard part is over. tee hee


	52. Blocked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS FOR: death, misscarriage, pregnancy, mentions of previous sexual assault

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jdjsjhfjsjf.....my head hurts from having to research all the medical terminology hyu

Dr. Silva is calm as she waits outside, arms crossed as she leans on the wall next to the door. She hasn't said a word. Waylon sits in a small seat on the side, Charlie pacing. Miles and Blake had been gone a total of seven minutes, but it may have well been an eternity. He can't stop the swirl of his stomach _. I should be in there with him,_ he thinks, _they shouldn't be in there alone._

As soon as Waylon has that thought, soft yelling beats against the closed door. Silva stands straight. When she attempts to grab the handle, the door to Lynn's room bursts open, Blake in the doorway. Lynn is yelling at him as he slams the door behind, rushing down through the hallway. Miles comes quickly after him.

"Langermann?" He yells, "Where the fuck do you think you're going?"

Blake doesn't respond, still walking, weathered boots beating quickly on the tiled floors.

"You're just gonna leave her there? _Don't fucking run from this_!" He follows, "Get the fuck back over here!" He runs down the hallway, Blake disappearing around a corner, Miles behind. He, too, disappears.

Silva looks to Waylon, "Will things get violent?"

"I fucking hope not," He says, "This...they don't...it's not...." He can't grasp the words in his head.

She enters Lynn's room, closing the door behind her. Face burning, Waylon looks down the hallway, seeing Billy standing at the end. He looks to Charlie.

"I will be. Right. Back."

As soon as she sits down, Waylon limps down, taking a right instead of a left. Miles and Blake are nowhere to be found. He presses his back against the wall, looking at Billy, "What happened?"

Billy's form is encased by wisps of smoke, "She wanted me to kill her. Put her out of her misery. She asked me, right in front of them. Then they all started yelling and screaming and I - " he shakes his head, white dripping from his eyes, "I _can't_ , Waylon."

Reaching out, Waylon is still surprised that Billy is still tangible. He grabs him, forces him into a hug. _Mercy killing_. The thought sickened him, someone suffering so much death could be their only reprieve. He wished the same of him, back in the asylum, wished someone would come through the door and finally end his suffering. Billy's head lays against Waylon's shoulder as he grips his shirt, cries.

"I don't want to kill her."

Waylon sees the image of Lynn, violent and in pain in the back of their van, "She's not in the right state of mind, Billy. She's been through some unimaginable shit," _Worse than me_ , "She just wants the pain to end," _I was like that, too_. He keeps glancing down the hallway, expecting to see Blake and Miles walking towards them.

"She's completely coherent, Waylon. She _wants_ to die. Either by my hand or hers, I don't think she'll live out the day."

Waylon hisses in air. The last thing he wants for Lynn is for her to kill herself, and die alone thinking everyone abandoned her. He pulls back, body hunched down to meet Billy's hollow eyes, "Is there anything you can do for her? Not kill her, but make her more comfortable until Miles and Blake get back?"

Billy looks down, eyebrows knit. He slightly nods, "I think I can."

They walk back to the room. Charlie is peeking through the tiny window of the door on her tiptoes. When she hears Waylon behind, she turns, "Doc is in there."

"Did those two come back?"

"No. When Silva went in, Lynn was trying to rip the IV from her arm."

"Merry Hell."

"Is...is she gonna be OK?" Charlie picks at the spiral end of her notebook, pen tucked behind her ear, "How long does she have?"

"I don't know," his eyes catch black smoke shifting under the door.

"She sounded in pain. Y'know, giving birth is the most painful thing a person can go through, next to being burned alive."

Waylon squints, "Why do you _know_ that?"

Charlie shrugs, "Saw it online."

Waylon keeps glancing behind, hoping to see either Miles or Blake rounding the corner. He approaches the door, peeking through the window. Silva is studying a chart, flipping through it, Billy by her side, looking over her shoulder. The longer Waylon looks at Billy, the more he thinks _Damn, that portrait Miles drew really was spot on._ Billy explodes into dust, suddenly standing over Lynn, who's laying motionless on the hospital bed. He holds one hand on her stomach, eyes closed.

"Hey," Charlie says with a pat on his arm, "I'm gonna go find a bathroom."

"I'll be here."

Waylon doesn't break away from Billy's still form. Billy stands still for a few moments, before his eyes flick open, head snapping to Waylon. He turns to dust, coming to the window, face - to - face with him.

"You need to get in here," his voice is subtly laced with..... _excitement?_

"What's wrong?" Waylon asks quietly.

"Everything, and nothing."

The door opens, Waylon almost falling into Dr. Silva. She stands still, annoyed.

"Mr. Park."

"Yup, that's me," Waylon stands straight, "How is she?"

"Sedated."

"Is it....is it alright if I go in there? Just to sit with her. I don't want her to be alone."

Silva gives him a once - over, then moves to the side, "You seem a little more level - headed than your companions. Try not to disturb her."

He wouldn't describe himself as _level - headed_ , but Waylon thanks her, stepping into the room. He's shocked at how pale Lynn looks. He steps closer. She's so skinny. He thinks of how traumatic the ordeal had particularly been for Lynn, seeing Blake's story in his mind's eye. _It's not fair. They didn't deserve this_. Billy stands at the foot of her bed. There's a tight grin on his face.

"What's the look for?" Waylon asks.

His hands clasp together, fingers locking, "I looked at her chart, over the doctor's shoulder. She has an unusual amount of stem cells."

"Stem cells?" He shakes his head, "What does that have to do with anything?" _I studied engineering, not biology._

Billy turns looks at Lynn. He brushes some of her hair out of her face, "Stem cells are reactive little things. They're what's building the fetus inside her, webbing through her organs. Her body is over - producing them."

Confused, Waylon pulls out a chair as his leg starts to pulse, "So....what does that mean?"

"It's how I'm able to heal both you and Upshur. I increase the level of stem cells you produce, my nanos attach themselves to the stem cells your body churns out from your bone marrow, skin, and brain, and turns them into the cells you need to heal."

Waylon perks, "So you _can_ help her?"

Billy nods quickly, "Yes. All I have to do is possess her, like I have you and Upshur."

"Is that....safe?" _I felt like I was dying when he took me over_ , and he rubs at the mark under his shirt, "Will that make her a target, like us?"

"They're already targets, Waylon," he says sadly, "They know Blake's name now. But I doubt they would ever think she held the Walrider, like they did Upshur. Their little kingdom is cracking down, their mercenaries and employees are being arrested and killed faster than they can hire them. They're going bankrupt. I think they might just ignore everyone else, and focus on just trying to keep themselves afloat."

"What has to happen? Whatever it is, I think you should do it."

"I knew you would say that. All I have to do is possess her, rearrange the cells, remove the webbing...." he looks over, "I think I might be able to save the child, too."

Waylon's heart does a flip. He stands, "Are you serious?"

"Oh, completely. It's still a fetus, nine months along, it's just...wrong," Billy beams, "I'll be able to fix what I destroyed. But it will take time. I need the doors locked, and I cannot be interrupted. It's not like with you or Upshur. Lynn is in so much pain, if I don't do it correctly, the process will kill her."

Blood softly thrumming with adrenaline, Waylon nods so hard his head almost flies off, "If it saves Lynn's life, I'll walk to Hell and back for it. Should I try and find Blake and Miles?"

"No time," Billy says, "The more we wait, the worse she'll get, and the more time it will take for me to reshape and rebuild her and the child," he turns, palm out, towards the door.

A large cabinet that was stationed next to the doorway was encased in smoke, then flipped on it's side, gently placed down. Smoke carries other items - chairs, machines - to block the doors.

"Why did you block the doors?" Waylon asks.

"Silva is very concerned with Lynn's wellbeing. As soon as she senses something is wrong, she'll interrupt the process. I have to do it all at once, if I do it in pieces it will come out wrong," he holds his hand out, "Come here," he says.

As Waylon approaches, Billy blinks out, reappearing on the other side of the bed. A chair slides up behind Waylon.

"Sit."

Waylon does. His heart hammers harsh in his chest.

"Hold her hand."

He gives Lynn's hand a firm grip. She's warm, a little bit of life in her otherwise unconscious form.

"If Blake and Upshur can't be here, then you'll have to be. She needs someone with her, even if she doesn't know it."

"Why can't they be here?"

"Upshur doesn't like the idea of other people carrying what he thinks should be his burden. He may not have let on, but he didn't approve of me bonding with you, even if it saved both your lives. He'd never let me help her if it meant bonding with her."

"And Blake?"

"I'm worried about his mindset. He's not thinking clearly, deluded himself into thinking she'll survive this herself. He's a wildcard, a lot like Upshur, he can't be in here."

 _That doesn't feel right,_ Waylon thinks, _Best of friends, they should be here._ But he trusts Billy. He hasn't lied, mislead, or hidden anything else. He wants to help, and Waylon will be damned if he stops him from fixing a mistake he thinks he's made, especially when it saves a life.

Waylon eyes the door, "What if they try to break in?"

Billy grins, "You're like Upshur now. That strength in him is now in you. Block the door yourself, if you feel it has to be done," He places both hands onto Lynn's stomach, "Are you ready?"

 _His strength is my strength. Kind of poetic,_ "How long will it take?"

"A while. Thirty minutes, maybe."

_Then it's up to me to make sure he does what he needs to without being interrupted,_ "Let's do it."

 

 

  
-

 

 

  
As Charlie exits the bathroom, she almost runs straight into Blake's chest. She looks up and, _Holy shit, does he look worse than before. Worse than when they -_

"Charlie," Blake says. His sniffs, grins tightly, "What are you doing?"

"I was just going to the bathroom," Washed a little blood off her skin and hair, too, but there's not much privacy in a public toilet, "What, I'm not allowed?"

He huffs, "You're _allowed_ to, I can't control you. Are you hungry?"

Her stomach growls, "No," She hasn't eaten since the early morning. It's later now, close to four in the afternoon, "OK, maybe."

Blake wraps an arm around his shoulder. She still didn't understand how he could be so calm, act like nothing ever happened

"Let's go get some lunch, huh?" He says.

"Would that be OK? What about your wife?"

Blake's already tight grin tightens more, causing Charlie to tense up. He breathes out of his nostrils, "I need some time to think. She's sleeping now. I'll see her again in a little while. There's a little sandwich shop across the street, whad'd'ya say?"

"Uh, I don't - " she stops, "Oh, fuck! That's right!" She dives into her pocket. _Almost forgot about this_. She pulls out Jude Rawlings' wallet, which she snatched out of his pocket, hoping to find a cell phone of some sort. She opens the wallet, finding a wad of cash inside.

"What's that?"

"I robbed Rawlings after I stabbed him. I almost forgot."

"Ah," Blake says.

She counts out the cash quickly. It's a collection of different bills, totalling to a little more than eight - hundred, " _Wo - ow,_ Jude was _balling_ out here."

"You can keep it," Blake pats his breast pocket, "I still have cash on me."

"Where's Miles and Waylon?" _And that ghost with them?_

"Miles is....."

 

 

  
-

 

 

  
In the back alley, Miles smashes bottles and trash cans with his bare hands, ignoring the shards that shoot up his palms and the noise he creates.

 

 

  
-

 

 

  
"....Taking some time to himself. Let's get some lunch, huh?"

She keeps getting glimpses of the past, back at her time in the rehab facility. The guards would beat him, do worse behind closed doors when they escorted him back to his room. Every time she caught a glimpse of his face, he always seemed to have a light grin. _Is that how he copes? Escaping everything, and pretending it's not there?_

She gives him a soft grin, "Sure."

 

 

  
-

 

 

  
Miles only stops when he runs out of things to break. He hates himself, wishing he could die. If _I tried to kill myself, would Billy be able to stop me? Would he die with me?_ He can't control himself, the ropes that held his temper down frayed and broken. His hands shake when he plunges them into his jean pockets. He feels something, the object ending up being a pack of cigarettes, and a lighter. _Fuck yes._

He's out there for who knows how long, in the back alley of the hospital, spending the smokes he found until they burn down to the filters. He wishes it would kill him, wishes he could rip open his chest and tear out his own lungs. He hates himself. He wishes he could take everything back, every word he yelled at Blake as he ran down the hallway, trying to drag him back to Lynn. He didn't deserve that. I had no right to act like that.

_"I can't fucking do this again, Miles. I don't want to bury my best friend. Again."_

Miles understands exactly what Blake means. The grieving process already started, and Temple's Gate is catching up to him, too quickly and too fast. He's not handling it at _all_ , let alone _badly_.

He surveys the debris around him. He's trashed the hospital ally. He barely got out of the hospital before he started tearing everything within arms reach up. _How long have I been out here, twenty minutes? Just tearing this place apart?_ Red flags popped up, immediately _. I can't keep trashing things when I get angry like this. Someone might get hurt._

Deciding it's no use to stay out there while Lynn is dying inside, Miles throws his last cigarette down. Walking back into the hospital, he keeps his gaze straight, people parting where he walks. _Good_. He gets to Lynn's room. Waylon, Charlie, and Blake are gone, Dr. Silva nowhere to be found. He walks up to the door, grabs the handle. _Huh. Didn't remember it being locked._ He peers through the window.

Half a machine is blocking his view. _Oh, shit._ There's maybe two inches of space Miles can peer through. When he does, he sees Lynn, encased by a black cloud, like a cocoon of smoke. She's unmoving, Waylon holding her hand as he sits by her bedside. Miles bangs his fist on the door.

"Park?" He says it loudly, just below a yell.

Waylon turns his head. His eyes widen, then his head turns away.

"Hey, hey!" Miles jiggles the handle, "What's going on?" He attempts to work the handle again, but it snaps off, "Oh, _motherf_ \- "

The small sliver of space disappears behind whatever object was half in the window. _What the fuck are they doing in there?_ Miles takes a step back, rams his shoulder into the door. It creaks, groans, a large dent appearing, but it doesn't budge. _Stupid fucking heavy hospital doors_. He does it again, the door coming off it's top hinges, a little bit of the room appearing through the sliver of the door.

There's a heavy groan, and the sliver disappears, the door being pushed back into place.

_What. The. Fuck._

He shoulders the door again, this time the door doesn't move from it's spot.

"Park? Open this fucking door!"

Waylon's voice comes out, a little surprised in tone, "Billy needs more time!"

"More time for _what_?" Miles grabs the broken part of the door handle still attached, pulling. The door pulls back.

"He's helping Lynn. Y - you can't be in here! Not yet!"

"What is he doing?" No matter how angry Miles was at Billy for keeping Lynn's pregnancy to himself, if Billy had a way to save her, he'd let him.

"He needs time to rearrange her stem cells. He's helping her, and the baby in her!"

"Why didn't he do it before?" _How the fuck is he keeping the door closed?_

"He needed to possess her, like you and me!"

With blooming anger, Miles pounds his fist on the door, "You can't let him do that!" _It's_ my _burden. Not yours,_ definitely _not Lynn's._

"That's why I can't let you in, Miles. He said you'd try to stop him," he pauses, "I'm sorry."

Miles stops, "Park. Let me in. Now."

There's a harsh beat of silence, "No."

"Goddamnit, Park, you let me in _right_ now or I'm breaking the fucking door down!"

"Miles if you interrupt him, she'll fucking die! You either let him do what he needs to do and stop being so fucking stubborn and trying to carry everyone else's problems on your Goddamn back, or I'll keep this door up until he's done."

Miles' jaw clenches shut, "Don't start acting like I'm some self righteous - "

"You _are_ self righteous, idiot! You think that everyone else's problem is your problem, but it's not! This is _Billy's_ problem, not yours, and he's going to fix it! So shut the fuck up and go sit down while he helps her!"

He pauses. Waylon has never really yelled at him before. He holds a hand flat to the door, "I want to see her."

"Not yet. He just needs five more minutes. As soon as he's done, I'll let you in."

"Please?"

"No."

"I hate you."

"No, you don't."

 _He's right_ , "Fuck you."

"Yeah," Waylon says quietly, "I can be a real asshole."

Miles exhales his frustration, then stands still in front of the door, arms crossed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OUGH ok.............ths chapter is a little boring sorry
> 
> Also i might be taking a slight hiatus after this chapter, because Borderlands 3 comes out this week, so sorry if any future chapters are really late, ive been waiting forever for bl3 to come out lol......
> 
> thnx for reading :)


	53. Birth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS FOR: miscarriage, pregnancy, birth, child death, hospital stuff

Miles is outside for a total of five minutes before Waylon pushes the dented, ruined door aside. Miles tries not to shoulder past him. His gaze is fixed on Billy, who stands over Lynn.

As soon as Miles walks into the room, Billy says, "She needs a doctor."

Miles runs out, finding Silva's office and almost bashing the door down, "Lynn needs an ultrasound. Now."

Fantastically, Silva doesn't argue. She goes to the room, eyeing, but otherwise ignoring the tremendous damage to the doorway they've done. She pulls out the ultrasound machine from the corner, applying gel and turning the machine on. Miles watches her face drop, a look of shock and awe appearing. On the screen of the machine was a black and blue image of a baby. Miles can almost make out some features.

"What did you do?" She asks. Her voice is low.

"Does it matter?" Miles says, "We need to deliver that baby."

Silva eyes him, turning back to Lynn, "I knew you had that Swarm with you. Me and my colleagues debated over it. Cordova owes me twenty bucks."

Miles would smirk at the humor she displays if he didn't feel like he was about to break apart in a gory heap.

"This..." she shakes her head, "Where's her husband?"

Miles and Waylon share a look. Waylon shrugs, "I don't know."

"Goddamnit," Silva stows her ultrasound equipment away, standing. She approaches a phone attached to the far wall, dialing a short number, "Langermann to room 213, Blake Langermann to room 213," she repeats herself a few times, slamming the phone down into the receiver. She points to Miles, "You, get out and find him," she points to Waylon, "You too. If I'm delivering the baby, I'm not doing it without the father."

"Park, where's Charlie?"

"Uh...bathroom?"

"You don't know where she _is_?"

"She said the bathroom! She has been gone a long time, though."

"I'll find Charlie," Billy says, "You two find Blake."

"Billy wants us t - "

"I heard, I know," Waylon begins to step out of the doorway.

Miles catches his arm, "Wait. You can _hear_ him now?"

"Yeah. See him, too," Waylon steps out of Miles' grip, "We can talk about it later!"

Silva washes her hands in a sink, "You two better hurry up, the contractions are getting shorter and shorter with each passing minute."

 

 

  
-

 

 

  
"Nothing," Billy says in Miles' head, "No Charlie, either."

"Not in this whole fucking hospital?" They've been searching for a few minutes, Billy scouting the hospital quickly.

"No. They didn't leave, Waylon still has the keys."

Miles skids to a stop at the front desk, catching the attention of a nurse, "Hey, have you seen a man and a teenage girl? The guy has glasses, real hairy, the girl has long dark hair."

The nurse gives him a blank stare.

Miles exhales, "They both look like complete shit?"

The nurse's eyebrows shoot up, then he nods, "Yeah, think I saw them in the lunch shop across the street."

"Cool, thanks," he runs out of the hospital, "Billy, get Waylon back to the room!" He doesn't look both ways as he runs across the street, bashing his shoulder into the doors of a sandwich shop. He spots Charlie and Blake in the corner, " _Langermann_!"

Blake sees him, stands, "What? What's wrong?"

"Lynn is gonna live, and she's about to give birth!"

" _What_?"

"Stop standing around, we have a baby to deliver!"

Charlie and Blake leap from their seats, all three running across the street, tearing through the hospital. Waylon is waiting outside the room.

"How is she?" Miles asks.

"She's still sedated, but according to Silva, it's coming fast."

Blake doesn't say anything as he rushes inside, nearly knocking Waylon over. Silva throws him a long smock and a pair of gloves, two other nurses flanking her, "Put these on."

He does, pulling them over his trashed clothing. Lynn's bed has been elevated, lying on her back, legs up, sheet covering her.

"How is this possible?" Blake says, pulling on an allergy mask, "I thought it was hopeless."

Sliva jerks her head to Miles, "Ask your friend here. _Quickly_."

Blake's eyes are wide and glassy behind his glasses. Miles motions to the room, "Yeah, Walrider magic, stem cells, Waylon, Billy not me, whatever, _Lynn's about to give birth let's talk about this later!"_

Silva pulls up a small metal table with a few metallic instruments laid on top, "Whoever wants to stay, wash your hands and put on a smock, if not, get out," her voice is calm, but commanding and loud. Miles washes his hands, pulls on a smock. As he does, he sees Waylon escort Charlie out.

"I didn't think I'd be a dad so soon, if ever," Blake says low, letting Silva direct him to a position next to her. She lifts the sheet, and Miles doesn't know if he should look away or not.

"You think you're ready?" Miles asks. He's staring over the shoulder of a nurse hunched over Lynn. He's never had to deliver a baby before, and he's wracked with worry for Lynn's safety. Childbirth is one of the most painful experiences a person can experience. _At least she's asleep for it._

"I don't think the baby cares if I'm ready or not."  
  
The nurses over their shoulder buzz, "Contractions reaching nine centimeters."

"Langermann, closer."

"Ten centimeters."

"I can see it."

Miles swear he can feel Blake's heartbeat. He holds a hand on his shoulder, squeezing, watching as Lynn's unconscious body pushes the baby from her. It was a life being thrown into a world, born innocent and unaware of everything around it. It simply exists to be, to live, to grow. Miles sucks in a breath. It overwhelmed him to see the sight as the baby slipped quickly out. In Blake and Silva's shared hands, the child is slimy, covered in blood and tissue, skin dyed pink, face twisted like it had eaten a lemon in the womb. Its eyes were closed.

It makes no sound.

 

 

  
-

 

 

  
Billy is facing the half - open door, which didn't fully shut, since Waylon and Miles had gotten into a tug - of - war with it.

"It's here. It's a girl."

Waylon perks up. He remembers the joy and stress of delivering his own sons. When Ricky was born, Waylon almost passed out, he was so anxious. _I wonder how Blake's doing in there right now._

"It's not crying."

Heart dropping, Waylon stands. _Oh, no_. He doesn't get a chance to ask anything, as the doors are thrown open, a nurse rushing out, phasing directly through Billy. They disappear down the corner, coming back with a large machine. The last time Waylon had seen a machine like that, it was when Ben was born, and the neighboring mother had given birth to a baby two months premature. She was scared to death, her partner trying their best to comfort her.

In a burst of smoke, Billy flows through the cracks of the door. Waylon limps over, peeking through the window. Miles and Blake are standing off to the side, embraced, watching as Silva and two other nurses place the child in the ventilator. Tubes and sensors are pulled out, attached, as if they were plugging the child into the machine. The nurses and Silva are on each side of the ventilator, and inside, the smallest bundle of pink Waylon thinks he's ever seen. Smaller than his boys, definitely.

Waylon barely jumps out of the way in time as they burst through the door. Blake rushes after them. Waylon catches Miles' sleeve as he tries to follow.

"What's wrong?"

Miles doesn't answer, instead ripping away from Waylon's grip, running down the hallway. Charlie looks at Waylon, shrugs, follows. There's a cold wind that passes through Waylon's body.

"What are you waiting for? Let's go!"

 

 

  
-

 

 

  
Blake has his palms pressed against the glass of the NICU. It's two hours later. They'd taken the baby, ran test after test on the smallest thing Miles had ever seen, had her surrounded by wires and machines, seeing more plastic tubing than flesh. Miles had acted like Blake's shadow, following him around as he passed between wings, going back and forth as he checked on Lynn, the baby, Lynn, the baby, over and over, so much Miles thought he would wear a trail in the tiled floors. Silva and attending nurses were inside the room with Blake's daughter (It shocked Miles to say it, _His daughter, their daughter,_ ) talking, motioning to the baby, charts in their hands. Ventilators whir, pumping the baby's lungs for her, other machines making her heart beat.

It was overwhelmingly _sad_.

Lynn was still under in the opposite wing, Silva muttering that the sedative was strong, and it would be a few hours before Lynn woke up. _How are we gonna explain all this too her?_ Miles' stomach drops. _Fuck, we didn't even consider how she'd feel about having a fucking kid. Save her, sure, but the baby?_ Lynn was always headstrong in not having kids until she was absolutely ready for them, and after Temple's Gate, Miles is sure _ready_ is the _last_ thing she is. _Not the kid's fault, but it's not Lynn's either._

"She's so small," Charlie says under her breath, "Is she...premature?"

Blake doesn't respond, so Miles responds for him, "We don't know what the fuck is wrong with her, Charlie," he can't look away from the small, small child in the case. _Will Lynn even want her?_

Silva exits the room, the nurses still over the baby. She pulls down her mask, eyes sunken. Blake peels off the glass, not speaking, just staring. Silva sighs through her nose, physically deflating. Over her shoulder, Billy lingers. She looks down at a chart in her hand, flipping through.

"I don't know what you did, but there's only good things to say about Lynn's x - rays. She's free of fractures. The webbing and swelling of her organs are gone, repaired. Her broken rib, and orbital fracture, are healed. Physically, it looks like she'll be fine."

Miles and Blake both breathe heavy sighs of relief.

"The baby, however, is another story."

Blake's hands clasp together, waiting.

"She's alive, but these machines are keeping her that way."

Miles inhales sharply, instinctually moving closer to Blake, holding one hand to the small of the man's back, "What does that mean?"

"She's brain dead."

As if someone had taken a brick to his legs, Blake buckles. Miles doesn't flinch as he catches him, glaring in Silva's direction, as he physically seats him. _Why am I angry with_ her _? It's not her fault._

Silva, as if used to glares like the same Miles was giving her, doesn't flinch. She holds out the clipboard, handing it to Miles, "It's the paperwork for the birth, as well as the birth certificate. I'm setting Lynn up for her MRI now."

"What about the..." he slightly nudges his head towards the room.

"We're doing all we can for her now," is all Silva says as she places the clipboard in Miles' hands, and walks to the opposite wing.

Miles holds it tight in his hand, threatening to break it. He turns, "Did you hear all that, Blake?"

Blake shudders, "I did," his hands are folded, fingers laced together, " _I'm so sorry_ ," he says to himself. He takes the clipboard from Miles' hands, follows Silva.

Instead of following, Miles stays back, "Billy?" He says quietly, eyes fixed on the two's disappearing form, "We need to talk."

He finds an empty, single - person bathroom, locks it. His instincts say ' _Force Billy into a corner and demand answers_ ,' but he keeps his back to one wall, arms crossed.

"I want to know _exactly_ what you did," he keeps his voice even, but strong.

Billy's hands are behind his back, leaning on the opposite wall, avoiding Miles' eye, as if caught doing something he shouldn't have been doing, "I helped her."

" _How_."

"Same way I help you and Waylon. I rearrange the cells in your body, fix what hurt you, help you live on."

"Why did you need to make her another host?"

"It's easy for me to reset a bone, stitch together a bullet wound, but like with Waylon, her condition was too extreme for me to simply inject some of my nanos and heal her."

"She'll be able to see you? Talk to you? She has the strength, too?"

"Yes."

Miles stares down at the floor. _Another target for Murkoff to try and pick off,_ "You've fucked her, you know that?"

Billy stands straight, squares his shoulders, "I _fucked_ her?" his face twists in anger, coming closer with each word he speaks, "I _saved_ her," he jabs a finger into Miles' chest, voice raising, and Miles has no choice but to press himself more against the wall, " _I_ made sure her _organs_ didn't _implode_ and take her to a dark abyss with that baby. If saving her life is worth us being bonded, than its better than her dying while her husband and best friend stand over her, powerless to help her. And I didn't make her a target, Miles, she already was because _you_ already _knew_ her and Murkoff _had_ Blake."

They're nose - to - nose, Billy's teeth bared, and for the first time in a long, long time, shame washes over Miles. He drops his crossed arms. _I'm being a selfish idiot, and it almost got Lynn killed because I was so set on being the only one Murkoff had their sights on._ He'd been blind. The whole reason Waylon is with him, how they stumbled upon Blake in a Murkoff facility, was because they got into situations themselves, not from Miles' hand. He can't control the tide of the world. And his decisions, no matter how good - intentioned, aren't always the best. He grabs Billy's hand, wraps both his hands around it.

"You're right," he says, his pride overwhelmed by the reality that he could've lost Lynn for fucking good, "OK? You're right. I'm sorry. Thank you for helping her. I don't know what Blake, what _I,_ would do without her."

For a moment, Billy looks like he's going to apologize. Instead, the softness of his face hardens, creases, "You get angry with everyone, and it's not right. You need to stop acting like you're the only one with the weight of the world on top of you," his voice breaks. The finger at Miles' chest curls into a fist.

Miles holds Billy's hand tighter to his chest, "It's not gonna be your fault, Hope, it's not," _Not his fault, not my fault_ , "Nobodies gonna be to blame, and you know why? Because when a baby grows in a few days because of some fucked up radio waves, how can you expect it to be fully functioning when it comes out?"

"It's not - "

"How are you gonna fix a brain? You can't stop Waylon from hallucinating, can't stop me from breaking shit when I get mad, there's lot's of shit that you can't do. It's not your fault if you can't fucking do anything about it," Miles shakes his head, "If that baby dies, Hope, it's not gonna be because you chose not to prevent it."

Billy stares, empty, almost hateful. Slowly, seconds ticking by as if they were hours, Billy relaxes his fist, rage softening his face into a whimper, lips trembling. He ducks his head into Miles' shoulder, crying softly.

"Sometimes," Miles says, "Shit just _happens_ ," He mulls over their adventure so far, every trauma, every close - call, "And there's nothing you can do about it. Life goes on, and you have to go with it, or else it leaves you behind."

Peeling back, Billy wipes white tears away, "Life goes on," he parrots quietly and tearfully, "You go with it, or else it leaves you behind."

"That's what I said," he brushes away the long, greasy locks in Billy's face, thumbing off tears, "You stand still in the road of life, you fucking get run over."

With that, a slight grin shows on Billy's face. He looks down, eyebrows knitting together as a look of concentration takes over him, "Life goes on."

"....Yeah."

There's a knock on the door, claiming both of their attentions.

 

 

  
-

 

 

  
Waylon firmly raps his knuckles on the bathroom door, "Miles?"

The bathroom pops open, Miles sliding out. There's no sign of Billy.

"See? Said I saw him in there," Charlie says.

"What, I can't piss without you knowing?" Miles says it with such a straight face, Waylon can't tell if he's joking or not. He almost completely forgets what he came to retrieve Miles for.

"Silva gave us these passes for a motel across the street," he holds out the two keys with red charms Silva had given him.

Taking one of the charms, Miles studies the key, "I don't know if I should leave. What about Blake?"

"I already tried convincing him, but he's not leaving," _If it was my family, I probably wouldn't._ He thumbs the charm in his hand, "At least a shower?" He scratches at his neck, feeling dried blood flake off.

Miles inhales, exhales, "Just a shower."

"Yeah. We can't be looking like horror movie extras forever, y'know? People are staring, and keep asking me if I need help," _And I need to talk to you. Alone._

With an amused huff, Miles looks down at the charm, then back to Waylon, "What's the setup?"

"It's supposed to be one for us and Blake, one for Charlie," with that, Charlie takes her key, smiles.

With a half shrug, Miles holds tight to the key, "Let me tell Blake where I'm going first."

"Right, yeah, right."

Charlie and Waylon keep their heads down as Miles is gone two, three minutes, then comes sauntering back up, "Can we walk there?"

"Right across the street, yeah."

They head out, hitting their van first and cramming whatever clothes were in there into their duffles, who's - who's be damned, and Charlie grabs her camera and notes. They check the numbers on the keys, 22 and 23, heading to their rooms.

"Have you called your family yet, Charlie?" Waylon asks her, suddenly remembering that she's a missing child in the state of Arizona as he hands her a new shirt and pants.

She shrugs, "Not yet."

"Why?"

"I want to see how this story ends," is all she says before she unlocks her door and closes it behind her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OUGH this chapter was longer but i cut it bc it felt neater, so sorry if it seems to cut off at a weird moment.
> 
> Thank you for being patient as i wrote this out :)
> 
> enjoy, thanks for reading :)


	54. Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS FOR: sexual content

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey yall.....ths fic reached over 3k views :) ! thank u everyone for sticking w this long, laborous process. i love writing, n im happy to write this :) thnx for reading tee hee

Their motel room is a double, with two beds, dressed in warm reds and browns. They set their things down, Miles checking the locks on the windows and door.

"You think Blake will come by?" Waylon asks.

"I told him the room number, but I don't think so," Miles starts undressing, "You wanna go first?"

Waylon does. He needs the time to think, focus on what he wants to say. As he enters the bathroom, he barely registers himself in the mirror, seeing more of a blur than a man as he strips down. The shower runs boiling, turning his skin red, and he needs it to, small bottles of soap helping him scrub away dried and flaky viscera out of every corner of his body. He touches the mark on his collar as the water makes the ash run. The space around, as well as other parts of his body, feel tender under his touch, but he doesn't feel any different. _What did I expect, increased stamina and the power to crush every doorknob I find?_ He shivers as he steps out, wraps a relatively clean - looking towel around his hips. _Fuck it._

As he exits, Miles is completely undressed, clothes in a crumpled heap at his feet. He doesn't glance up. He barely looks at Waylon as he goes into the bathroom, shuts the door.

 _Perfect_ , Waylon thinks, _more time._

Miles is gone for around thirty minutes, Waylon sitting on the edge of the bed in his towel. He picks at the ends, mulls over what he's going to say. When Miles finally comes out, he's in the same state as Waylon, freshly washed and in a towel. Miles blinks, squints.

"You alright, Park?"

Waylon nods once, "No. We need to talk."

Miles sits on the side of the bed opposite, and Waylon turns to face him. He flexes his hands over his towel, trying to keep Miles' intense eye, but Miles keeps glancing at the mark on his chest.

"I'm sorry," he says, "That I kept you out of Lynn's room."

Miles looks like he's fighting to grin, "Park, if I was mad about that, you would've known."

"Probably, but I still want to apologize."

There's silence between them for a while, Waylon starting to sweat. Miles waves a hand.

"So...I accept the apology."

Waylon inhales, exhales, trying to soothe himself, shadows dancing in the corners of his eyes, "Yeah, I thought so, but I wanted to say; What the fuck is next for us, Miles?"

Miles shrugs, "We're out, that Murkoff mouthpiece Rawlings is dead, so's a lot of Blackjaw. Can't say recruitment is up for them. Murkoff is tanking into the gutter," he runs a tongue over his teeth, "I don't know."

With a slightly trembling hand, Waylon runs over the mark on his collar, "No, not..." he sighs, "About...this."

"This?" Miles touches the mark on his own chest.

He points between them, "This," Waylon always liked to think he had a good handle on talking about his feelings, the hard shit that people around him liked to ask for advice on, " _Us_."

At ' _Us_ ,' Miles sits up, eyebrows raised in surprise, "Us," he parrots back.

"Yeah," Waylon shifts, "Me and you. Together."

".....Are we? Like, together?" He says, quietly. _Hopeful_.

"No," Waylon says, "But I'd...."

He rises, sits next to Miles, who shifts slightly to face him. Both of their chests are bare, and Waylon finds himself staring at the center of Miles' mark, focusing on the light in the middle. He grabs one of his hands, folds it in between his own.

"But I'd like to be. Listen, Miles, this has been the craziest months of my life, but it's not gonna be...forever. There's gonna be a point where Murkoff will be so deep in the literal pit that we won't have to run," he thumbs over the back of Miles' hand, "But I can't even imagine going off back to a normal life."

Miles is quiet, Waylon unable to tell what he's feeling.

His pre - rehearsed lines have thrown themselves out the proverbial window. He takes a deep breath, "That when this is all over...fuck it, even _now_ , I want us to be together, and stay together. If we're on the run for the rest of our lives, or Murkoff burns itself down and we can go back home, either way, I don't want to do it without you."

He glances up, and Miles' dead stare is watery, confused.

"It's...I can't imagine being separated from you," he thumbs over the nub of Miles' missing ring finger, "Which sounds like it's a bunch of hot shit, but it's true. I don't want to go back to my old life if you can't be in it."

Miles blinks, "You're fucking serious," he says, stunned.

" _Miles_ ," there's a break in Waylon's voice, "You think I'd say it if I didn't mean it?"

The stunned look on Miles' face softens, "Fuck, Park, you're _serious_."

"Yeah, I am," Waylon shifts a little closer, "How many times do you want to hear it?"

He'll say it a thousand times, a hundred thousand times, a million times, as many times as Miles wants to hear it. Because the bond that held them together, made of trauma and violence, evolved into a relationship of mutual understanding and unwavering loyalty to each other. Miles gave Waylon something he was sure he never was going to feel again. _Safety_. He was sure those feelings were far gone, erased like an equation written on a chalkboard. But every time they're in the same room, Waylon feels more confident, Miles treating him less like ' _You're broken_ ,' and more ' _I'm here to help you.'_

And God willing, Waylon would provide Miles that same amount of respect and understanding. He needs someone on his side, who puts him above everything else, the one thing he never got in his life. Together, they're stronger, and supporting each other, they're unstoppable.

"Say it again," Miles slides his hand out from between Waylon's. He pushes forward, their noses brushing. Miles' body is still slightly wet, radiating warmth.

Sliding his hands over Miles' shoulders, Waylon lets himself be leaned back onto the bed, "I want to be with you," he says it strongly, like they're his final words.

Miles kisses him, makes him shiver. Their towels are shed, and Waylon feels untouchable to the world outside the walls of the motel, feeling each roll of Miles' hips and how his hands caress over his skin, not like knives, but like the warm hands of a man who cares about him.

"Can you say it again?"

"I want to be with you," Waylon's heart beats so hard, he's afraid it might burst from his chest, "I can't imagine being without you."

Miles shudders. He looks down at Waylon, eyes blown out. His hand trails down, past the v of Waylon's hips. He runs his knuckles light over the length of him, Waylon letting out a low and deep sigh.

"Say it again?" With his other hand, Miles slides over his chest, feeling out the edges of his mark.

Waylon reaches up, pulls him down by his neck, "I never want to leave you."

Miles sighs, kisses the side of Waylon's temple. He mutters something Waylon can't pick out, Miles' body shielding him from the dim light of the room. Miles kisses over his collar, over the mark, "You drive me crazy, y'know that?"

 _I sure hope I do,_ Waylon thinks. He snakes his hand down, gripping Miles. He's warm and thick, and Miles makes the sweetest noise when he rolls his palm over the head.

" _Boss_ ," Miles' voice is deep and husky.

Waylon swallows, "You like that?"

With a huffed laugh, Miles raises, his hands flanking Waylon's head, "Yeah," his eyes flutter at a particular twist around the base, "Oh, _fuck yeah_ ," he sits up, "Boss, please, c'mon."

 _Sure as shit looks like he needs this._ It rushes to Waylon's head, seeing Miles like that, just the hint of a beg in his words. He stays flat on his back, watching Miles' face twitch and tense, bite his lip. Waylon sits up, chin resting in the middle of Miles' chest.

"Lean back," he says, "Miles, lean back."

Miles does, Waylon following, supporting himself on his right knee. Miles fingers run through Waylon's hair, his beard.

"You look so _good_ ," he says, "You should keep the beard, fuck do I like it."

Waylon almost laughs, because with all that's happened in the last 48 hours, Waylon knows he looks like complete _shit_. Still, with a smile, he cups Miles' testes, softly rubbing, seeing Miles flush. Miles' hands smooth over his own chest. His pecs have a little give, and he grabs them, squeezes the muscle. Waylon must've been staring with his eyes wide, as Miles stops touching himself, moves back to smooth over Waylon's face.

"You OK?"

Waylon nods, moves his hand to pump Miles' cock. They kiss, and Waylon lets go to line their hips up, velvety skin brushing together. He sighs, moving his head to rest in the space between Miles' shoulder and neck.

"Yeah, Boss," he shifts, shafts rubbing, " _Fuck yeah_."

Waylon kisses his skin, hands braced and curled into the blanket, rocking against Miles' body. He lasts less than a few minutes, spilling out over Miles' belly, moans caught by Miles' mouth in a messy kiss. His mind blanks white, spreading through his legs up his spine, threatening to shoot into his brain and fizzle him out. He likes the way Miles holds him as he cums, arms braced around his shoulders, chests pressed together tight, like Waylon would float away if he didn't act as an anchor. He stills, breathing hard until his mind loses the fuzziness. He looks down between them. Miles' cock twitches, Waylon's cum thick and striped along. Waylon wets his lips, reminding himself that this is _Miles_ , and kisses over the man's chest and scars as he goes lower.

"What's goin' on, Boss?" Miles pushes himself up on his elbows.

Waylon pushes his thighs apart, pushing one of Miles' knees to his chest. He's got thick and dark hair around him, winding up into a dark happy trail. Waylon wets his lips again, kissing up the thigh of the raised leg. He eyes Miles' prick. _Hell, it's been a while._

"Waylon."

"Hm?" Waylon asks, pulled out of his thoughts.

Miles has an almost worried look on his face, "You good?"

"I'm good," Waylon answers, looking back down. He wants to spend hours exploring Miles' body. But, _No reason to go above and beyond just yet, right? Not the right time_. He kisses Miles' thighs, leaving marks on his skin, flattening hair, not looking away. He sucks at his testes, licks a stripe up, Miles groaning loud. Waylon kisses up the shaft, laps up the cum he's left behind.

" _Shit_ , OK," Miles laughs, "Fuck, shit, _fuck_ , you look fucking _good_ , Boss," Miles holds a hand under his knee, raising his leg more, spreading himself.

Dizzy, Waylon laps at the underside of the head, eyes closing, lost in the sensation of Miles rifling his other hand through his hair.

" _Boss_ \- "

He angles Miles' cock a bit more, pushing the tip of his tongue into the cockslit, senses overpowered by salt.

" _Waylon_ \- "

Swirling his tongue, he sucks on the cockhead.

"Baby, please - "

 _Baby_. The petname makes Waylon suck harsher, pull back, suck and lick his way from base to head, again and again. _That's right, I'm your baby._ Miles' grip harshens. Waylon cracks an eye to see Miles staring down, blank eyes now burning, biting down on his lip, leaving a red mark, his chest rising and falling quickly. He catches Miles' gaze, and keeps it when he flattens his tongue and drags it up the side.

Miles groans loud, "Way, Baby, _fuck_ ," and his voice dips low, hips rising. Waylon keeps his mouth as the base, huffing out hot air and stroking fast, giving his fist a twist, as Miles lets out a loud cry, body tensing. White stripes his belly, cock twitching against Waylon's cheek.

There's wordless quiet after, Miles with his fists still in Waylon's hair, tight. Waylon gently eases off, Miles flopping flaccid. Miles' hands don't leave his hair as he crawls back up his body. He lays on top of him, legs entwined. The haze over Miles passes, and he grins.

"Hey Park."

"Hi," Waylon crosses his arms, cheek leaned on top of an elbow.

Miles pauses, as if waiting, then speaks, "You love me?"

"I do," It's the easiest thing Waylon has ever had to say, "I love you."

"OK," Miles says, "Good."

Waylon laughs, "Just ' _Good_ '?"

"Yeah," Miles thumbs over Waylon's puffed lips, "Because I've been waiting to fucking say it, and it's easier when the other person says it first."

Heart thudding, Waylon hides his wide smile in his arms.

"I'm not good at this, so don't make fun of me," Miles waves a finger.

" _Never_."

"But I really do love you, Park. I feel the same, about staying with you. But the thing is, you're a bit more optimistic about walking away from all this corporate evil shit. I'm more into the romance of being on the run for the rest of our lives, living out in the woods or something."

Waylon laughs again, this time rolling over to lay on his side. He runs his fingers over the stubble on Miles' jaw, "I guess that could be pretty romantic."

"We'd find an old dilapidated cabin and live there, feeding off the land."

"More camping, _great_."

Miles grins, turning over onto his side, "But I'm serious, Park. I love you, and I don't want to be anywhere unless you're with me," his fingers trace over Waylon's collar, running over the ash there.

Heart thudding hard, Waylon holds Miles' shoulders as he pulls him in, kissing him deeply. They lay there for a long while, talking about absolutely nothing, until Miles gets up to wipe himself off. As soon as Miles leaves the bed, the days crash down on Waylon, and he passes out.

 

 

  
-

 

 

  
Miles wipes himself down with warm water from the sink, giddy as a pig in shit. No one has ever told him they loved him before. Not his mom, not his dad, not the number of boyfriends from his past. Shit, not even a platonic ' _Love you'_ from the Langermanns. He was sure Waylon really, _really_ did mean it. Couldn't have come at a better time. If anything, Miles needed the stability. Something, _someone_ , he could lean and count on, who would _reciprocate_ and _want_ him and _love_ him like he's _always_ wanted to be. He looks at himself in the mirror. He looks like a fuck - ugly crackhead when he's bald, but that didn't deter Waylon, _not one fucking bit_. He smiles at himself, then dries off with a hand towel, and goes back out.

Waylon is passed out, ass - naked on his back. Miles almost laughs, but _Waylon sure fucking needs the sleep_. He sits on the edge of the bed, Waylon's mark catching his eye. He runs his fingers over the edge, milling over the cracked skin. He touches his own mark. They're connected now, through Billy, sporting what's the most important of all their scars. He looks around the room, goes to the closed curtains and peeks outside. No Billy. _Huh, wonder where he went._

He pulls on clean clothes, his size - too - big shoes, and since they share the same sizes, grabs a spare shirt and pants and boxers for Blake. He writes a note down on a pad on the nightstand. Not the first time he's left a note and dashed out, but this time, he's coming back. He finds his wallet dug into the pocket of a jacket, thankfully unfound while they were held captive. He takes a hundred dollar bill out, leaves the rest on top of the note. He leans over Waylon, kisses his forehead.

"Be back later, Boss," and he walks out. He locks the door, jiggles the handle to make sure it's locked.

As he crosses the street, he whistles a low tune, clothes neatly folded and hanging over his arm. The evening is coming quickly, swallowing the city in orange light and shadow. He walks into the hospital, beelines for Lynn's room. She's still passed out, heart monitor beating steadily. He pulls up a chair, sits next to her, draping the clothes over the back of the chair.

"Seen Blake around, Linnie? No?" he waves a hand, "Probably seeing your kid. Can you believe it? You're a mom now," _For now,_ "Never thought I'd see the day," He leans his elbows on his knees, "Hey, can I be the Godfather? I've never been one before. I'd like to be, y'know?" He pauses, "Have you thought of a name? It's a baby girl. Probably after your mom, or your grandma, right? Liane Megan Langermann. L - M - L," he grins, "Yeah. I don't think you'd like how that sounds, but you aren't gonna let Blake name her after _his_ mom. Dolores, _ugh_."

The more he thinks about that baby, the more reality crashes down on him. _It's a baby. Comatose or not, it's here. Christ_. Leaning back into his seat, he keeps going. It's much easier to lay out his heart when the person he's speaking to isn't awake for it. He puts a hand over hers, her skin warm.

"I'm worried about you and Blake, Linnie. Me and Waylon? Our shit pales to what you went through - _Well_ , mine did, anyway. Was I any different when I showed up to your apartment? It feels like you two have changed," _Twisted and bent by all that fucking pain_ , "That sounds like a heap of hot stupid, I know, I know, but I'm worried that we'll all be so fucking changed from who we were that we'll drift apart. Waylon says that one day, this'll all be over, and we can go back to our homes and jobs, and I fucking love him, but that's fucking _naive_ , Linnie. It's naive to shit and it's not how it's gonna go - "

The door to Lynn's room opens, and Miles stands, hoping it's Blake. It's Silva, chart in hand. She almost seems surprised to see him.

"Upshur. What are you doing here?"

"Showered, that's it. Thank you for the room."

"Don't mention it."

"How's the baby?"

"Nothing has changed."

Miles nods, ignoring the pain in his chest, "Blake staying out of your way?"

"No, but he's passed out in my office right now, so I'm taking the time to do some work before he wakes up," she checks the monitors, makes sure the IV bag is full.

Questions bubble up in Miles' head, unfiltered as they come out, "Why are you doing this?"

"Doing what? Helping people so they don't die?"

"Helping _us_. We're wanted, Murkoff could storm this hospital any second, and you've gone more than above and beyond for Lynn. Why?"

Silva has her back to him, checking another machine. She turns, stares him dead in the eye, "I've got my own grievances with Murkoff."

"Against that moral code of _'Do No Harm_ ,' Doc?" The familiar twist of his gut tells him: _There's more._

Silva breathes in, breathes out, "Can't say that didn't piss me off, but no, not entirely. I've been over the Mount Murkoff Incident tapes over and over again," she opens her doctor's coat, reaches into the pocket of her slacks. She takes out her phone, and walks over to Miles. She swipes through, then shows Miles a photo.

The photo is of Silva, maybe a few years younger. She's smiling wide, a completely different picture than what Miles had known of her. She has an arm around a man, and in turn, the man has his arm around her. The man is white, with a shaved head and dark eyes, and an equally large smile on his face.

"Who's that?"

"My brother. Step - brother, but we met at a very young age, grew up together. We were more siblings than step - siblings, inseparable, us two. He accepted me when nobody else did. He joined the army, I pursued a career in medicine. Five years ago, he disappeared. He always was a little different, and so was I, but he had never disappeared on us before. We talked everyday. It was unlike him. We went to his house. It was picked clean, remarkably well - kept, which was unlike Chris. We had no idea what happened to him," she swipes on the photo.

The next photo sends chills through Miles' body. A grainy image through the green filter of night vision showed Chris Walker, lips and eyes torn and broken, stalking down a hallway as Miles trained the camera on him, "Until those tapes came out."

Miles' head snaps up, eyes wide.

"I'm not angry at you, Upshur. Not even at that thing that killed him," Silva quickly turns her phone off and tucks it into her pocket, "I'm angry with Murkoff. If there's anything I could do to fuck up their reputation more, it would be to help you all," There's a subtle break in her voice. One that she so expertly reigns in, "It's all pro - bono, cost means nothing. It's not going to bring Chris back, but it's the least I can do in making sure Murkoff won't hurt anyone else ever again. And as long as you're all alive," She huffs, "That's the biggest ' _Fuck you'_ I can think of for them."

Miles hesitates, then slides a hand on her shoulder, "I'm sorry," It's all he can offer her. He can understand her motives, but he'll never understand how she feels.

Silva looks at him, just the slightest shine to her eyes, "At least you ended his suffering," she pinches the bridge of her nose, then looks back at her chart, "Mrs. Langermann should wake up in soon, just a few more hours. Hungry?"

 

 

  
-

 

 

  
Silva and Miles are sitting in a Burger King, talking over greasy burgers, on him. She's trans, divorced once, but seeing an ambulance driver. Plus, he learns a lot more about Chris Walker, how his undescribable condition and how shitty he was treated by everyone, even his own family, inspired her to go into the medical field. He always was protective, standing up for people like her, using his size to his advantage. At 18, he joined the army.

"I don't know _how_ ," Silva says with a head shake, "He was always too sweet for that, and one interview with a recruiter and he should've been excluded."

Miles huffs, "Maybe they had their eye on him. Murkoff, I mean."

"From birth? Impossible."

He shrugs, "I don't know. It looked like they were...." he waves a hand, "Collecting people, almost. They took people who were available, sure, but it felt like some of the people there were targeted."

Their chat is cut short by Silva's pager. He waves her off, waits until she leaves, then grabs a couple meals to go. He goes back to the motel, knocks on Charlie's door.

When she opens it, a news broadcast blares behind her. She's dressed in a new outfit, Waylon's clothes.

"Hey kid," he says, holding out a bag and a soda, "Got you dinner."

Charlie smiles, motioning Miles in. He enters. The motel room is the same as his and Waylon's, with two beds and a nightstand in the middle. She turns the TV down, "Thanks Miles," she says.

"Don't mention it," he let's himself be led to a neighboring bed, still made. Charlie devours her burger and fries in record time. Her long hair is frizzy, clean, as Miles notes.

"Watching the news?" He asks her. Awkwardly folding his hands and tapping his foot. He's never been great with kids, and he's even worse with teenagers.

"Yeah. They're talking about the Howling Coyote. They've rescued over one - hundred - and - twenty - six women, arrested eighty staff members -"

 _Good_ , Miles thinks, _Fuck that place_

" - and those guys in black."

"Blackjaw."

"Right," she jots that down in her notebook, "Can I ask you some questions?"

Miles can't tell if her being so inquisitive is a coping mechanism, or if she's just naturally curious like this. But, if Charlie wants an interview, Miles isn't so cruel to deny her that, "Sure, but give me a minute, I have to drop something off for Waylon first."

"'Kay, I'll be here."

He walks next door, turns on the dim lights. He's in there for maybe thirty seconds before Waylon blinks himself awake. He rubs the sleep from his eyes, rises, still naked.

"Hey," Miles says, "I brought you Burger King."

Waylon grabs his discarded towel, laying it over his thighs like a blanket, "Sorry, I didn't mean to fall asleep. What's the time?"

"Like," he glances at the wall clock, "Almost nine."

Waylon exhales, stretches. Miles steps over, plops the bag next to him.

"Thank you," Waylon says, and after he says it, Miles laughs when he hears his stomach growl.

"Don't thank me, Boss," Miles says, "Least I can do," he threads his hand through Waylon's slightly - messy hair, "Charlie wants to talk to me. After, I'm going back to the hospital."

"Mmm," Waylon coaxes Miles down, kisses him, "Tell me when you're done with Charlie, I wanna come with you."

With a huff, Miles grins, "I'll be back. You eat and get some sleep."

Thankfully, Waylon doesn't argue. He just peppers Miles' cheeks with light kisses, thanking him. Miles goes off back to Charlie's room. She's set up a chair in front of the TV, back to the screen. On the nightstand, aimed at the chair, is Charlie's camera. She takes a sip of her soda, sitting cross - legged on one of the beds. She reaches to the nightstand, turning the camera on.

"It is...." Charlie checks the date, reads it off, "Nine - o - two PM. Subject: Miles Upshur," she has her notebook in hand.

Not having to be told what to do, Miles sits down. The motel chair is stiff and uncomfortable. He looks into the camera, waves, his lips in a tight grin. He stares, for a second, then laughs.

"This is some great first story for you, huh kid?" He plays with his fingers, "Well, I'd rather it be you then some other story - hound out there."

Charlie smiles, questions flowing out, and Miles answers each honestly and openly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for a while i forgot this was a romance fic between miles and waylon i was so caught up in the hospital drama like this was House MD so.....sorry. sorry yall im crazy. hope some of the shit here makes up for some of that. sorry if everything was confusing for a while, lots of characters are a little confusing sometimes
> 
> also yeah, Silva is a trans woman. i havent made trans ppl key characters yet so :) yay - for more context, she and Chris Walker are step siblings, Silva's mom marrying his dad, and they're the same age, so they were raised since they were 6/7 yrs old.... :)


End file.
